The hammering sound, steel against earth,
my body humming, threaded with effort.
The rigs belch smoke like untamed beasts,
their roar a refrain in my blood.
In the truck cab, the seat creased,
I stretch out, spine bent like rebar.
The rain taps its slow persistent code,
its rhythms a solace, a whispered lull.
A dream slips in—roots break asphalt,
the earth swallowing a thousand highways.
My hands are cracked from holding wrenches,
grease threaded into my calloused skin.
Out here, the stars gleam like forgotten scars,
their light too faint for a man working,
too quiet to answer the old, raw hum
that pulses within these overused bones.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: April 25th, 2025 09:16
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
Offline)
Comments1
This poem speaks to me Gray. Many years I have done manual labor and know the calloused hands and grease of work. You are most talented in your imagery and metaphors. Here I sense a metaphor as well. Is it not all humanity in their daily labors that are too busy to see the star light and is it not our work or rather technology that dims the skies? A most subtle message sent in such a powerful poem. Loved it
Thanks Soren, I appreciate your detailed feedback
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