i am accustomed to
the character of dirt.

i have plumbed the intimate secrets
of slime, filth and
grime of varied
composure.

my sleeves
are rolled
above the elbow, past
thick and inked forearm,
wrapped around
thoughtful bicep.

my shoulders
loom above
like a gantry

and

hold an array
of flinty local color
piled up past the ear.

i am accustomed to
the character of waste.

i have hauled the heaviest nothings
in bodies, moments and
words of scintillating
meaning.

there is always work
that needs done, that’s
a constant, a given;

i would rather haul
away the countless piles
of cratered words and
oblique intent
that wither
on thorny vines

until my bones
pull towards the sky
through thin and yellowed skin

than ever suit up
for deep pressures
in the hopes that a mound
of virulent garbage
hides a gem, not again.

the forearm
will shrink,
the bicep
will quiet and
the sleeves
are not meant
to stay up

as the chips slip
away
from shoulders destined
to slope and shrink.

i am accustomed to
the character of hard work

and the infinite fruits
of slow permanence,

but i am very hungry.

J. Endress, USA