3180. WORKING THAT CLOSE TO THE FIRE

WORKING THAT CLOSE

TO THE FIRE
What would you have me do? Bubble-gum
angle-iron steel girder up above. A workman,
no different say than Adam or Cain or Abel,
whatever, is going about his stupid task : while
breathing a heavy dose, spitting a Coke, picking
at a sandwich, talking about his wife, and, as well,
splitting hairs about every little thing. I awarded
him the golden plaque for 'One Useless Endeavor.'
-
Wednesday was the final day at home. I listened
all the while he told his story. She was leaving,
his 'ever faithless cock-sucking whore of a wife,'
and taking the kid as well. Her new guy lived
in Belmar, and had a dick the size of a thimble,
he'd bet. He owned a three-room beachfront
bungalow, and the kid loved it there. The wife,
he didn't know and couldn't care. He hoped
she 'liked being a slave to a little dick.'
-
Whew! I sensed something amiss here, some
fearsome rage about to explode. Pity that
sandwich, pity that hammer, pity that load.
His co-workers as well - I thought of them.
What must they think, having to work
that close to the fire all day?