Works Alone Now

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.