Blue Collar Love

You may think
I go through the slow-turning wheel
of my work day busy
with numbers and schedules,
chores small and large,
not stopping
to open the door
for you to walk into the many rooms
inside my head.

But there are few of the good things
I see, untouched by the dirt and grime of my work,
that do not cause me
to hook a chain to a glimpse of you
and pull you to me,
nor bring me to forget the ache of toil,
the hammer-bruised finger
or the sting of carbon cleaner in a cut.

Just tonight, when I saw
above the swing of my sledgehammer
and the fumes of diesel and sweat,
the three-quarters moon
playing games with the dark passing clouds
I wished they were you and I.

And when I saw long pines shaking together,
dancing to the tune of the wind
as it whistled its way north,
I was swept away in a flash
to the many jigs and diddies
we dance and sing together,
you shaking what your mother gave you,
your head bopping, mouth open in an Ohhh,
and me unnoticeably scrambling for lyrics
to spark a laugh from you.

Every day, each time
life plays the bully
and sits atop me,
pinning me down,
leaving me trapped
and feeling weak
under its heavy knees,

you come along,
the quiet girl in the playground
of this hard world,
to reach for my hand,
not caring that my hands aren't soft,
that I have dirt under my fingernails,
or that my hair is mussed.