The Working Class

the_working_class

I long for singular moments.

If I work harder, I will reach them. Promises.
Singular moments remain locked.
Grandmother worked the fields,
feast or famine determined by her hands.
She never smiled at people she didn’t like.

We hold these truths to be self-evident.
Sugar strewn paths have turned sour
and few people know what it’s like to see into a soul.

If I could sleep to the song of crickets
or hear the spiral call of cicadas in August,
but I’m of the working class now.
The air smells of burnt oil and exhaust.

photo credit: Dorli Photography via photopin cc