I could see my worker
up on the roof asleep.
his bucket and brush
were by his side.
his face was red in the sun,
his hands together
resting on his ample belly.
the drop to yard below
was twenty feet, at least,
so I didn't want
to startle him, to wake
him and have him
roll off and be killed.
so I let him rest.
he had a rough night.
a rough week.
a rough life.
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1 comment:
I like this simple poem.
That is what life feels like sometimes
we all want to appreciate that twenty
minutes of rest, faced turned
to the noon-day sun.
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