For years I’ve toiled,
I’ve worked the earth.

Well, let’s be fair,
I’ve worked on the earth,
pushing an electric mower
over a puny patch of grass.

But toil, oh the toil!
I toil here at this desk
beside a chugging laser printer,
choking on hot toner and
the scorch of halogen desk lamps.

I’ve sweated, I’ve sworn,
beneath this scorching sun,
salt stinging my eyes
as it drips from my brow,

but only on Saturdays
before the trip to Home Depot,
back in my chair with a beer
and a remote control
in time for the football games.

Look at my hands,
weathered and worn,
scarred in one place
from a battle royal
with a stuck stapler,
soft as a baby’s cheek
and neatly groomed.

A man’s hands.

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