Sometimes it brings us joy, satisfaction, and even a purpose.
Sometimes it brings us stress, aggravation, and even abject misery.
Work.
We all have to do it, whether you like it or not. It becomes a part of the fabric of our lives, and its up to us how we let it define who we are and what we do.
Ever since I was 16, I have whiled away time working at a variety of different jobs. Sometimes it was a step back, sometimes a step forward, and there was even a little unemployment mixed in there. That was really fun, let me tell you. Thankfully, I got lucky enough for that period of time to be short, but that's for another day.
Having experienced a whole spectrum of labor, words regarding these experiences came easy.
And came by the truckload.
So, starting on this theme of 'work', is the first in a series of poems. Please enjoy, and let me know what you think, as always. Thanks for reading.
Working Man
The door slams
shut on his darkened box.
Groping for the light from above,
His boots come off with a sigh,
And the beer comes cold from the
fridge.
His spine aches, and his callouses creak.
Depleted of youth and hardened with
toil.
His eyes burn with exhaustion, and he
groans,
Leaning back into his faux leather
throne.
Cold suds warm his frozen chest,
As the bottle is nursed into oblivion.
His dangling cigarette is a lone ember,
Floating in the blue, 60-watt haze.
Silence settles, and the evening ebbs
away.
Peeling wallpaper is the new backdrop
As the last of the twilight falls,
And gives way to chirruping crickets.
The shower is scalding, and the steam
refreshing
Erasing evidence of his daily grind.
Towels give way to a cloudy mattress,
Embracing him in a blanketed cocoon.
The bedside lamp is his final beacon,
As her picture stares back at him.
Smiling forever, enshrined in a
battered frame.
He makes sure to smile back.
Click.
-Stefan Adcock
2019
I picture so many people with this one. Another true life story. Nice job honey.
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