blue collar

the blood of
the butcher
abstracted
upon his
white smock.
coal dust
under the nails
of striped
miners exiting
darkness
into more
darkness.
the white spray
of paint
on the eye
brows
of men still
bent in that
same way
at the end of
a shift.
welders holding
solder
in their mouths,
taking home
the metal
taste of their
flames
with them.
each to his own
muscle
and brawn, beating
back
fatigue
and want, always
ready
to go on, for
what choice
is there?