A Voice Form the Toolbox
Grass is burning.
Lights bulbs are flickering.
Paint is peeling.
Trash is overflowing.
The ground is littered.
Faces are not recognized.
Uneducated logo-bearers painted with blue collars,
underpaid, overworked and unappreciated
by men whose sense and compassion are strangled by bowties.
Compensation? I hope they factor in
the bad backs, strains and stress
which were received at the end of
every week with our pay stubs.
We are offered numbers. We are numbers.
All we desire is respect and truth.
The scuffs from our work boots are forever imbedded
into a campus that struggles with what type of saving
they stand for.
Sweat stitched into the brim of my hat
will always remind me of snowstorms,
furniture in and out of basements and maintenance
to keep a place functioning.
Our lockers will be stuffed
with new items,
our chairs will carry
the burdens of other men.
“How many people does it take
to change a light bulb?”
Not as many as it takes to
disrupt ones livelihood.