the work poem

your raw hands, your bent
back, the dirt, the paint,
the dust in your hair,
your eyebrows singed
with white soot, you can
taste the day on
your tongue, in the tissue
of your lungs. your money
comes from the muscle
of your arms and legs,
your hands still curled
at night from the brush
or tool you pushed all day.
you are old and weary,
but you press on you
press on like a character
in a Philip Levine poem.