A poem, he said.
A poem for the ordinary life,
the day to day unfolding of
ordinary things.
Of steely resolve in the face of
the mundane; a poem,
he said, to show the world
the easy glories of the working man,
the daily grind, the small things.
There's too much of this
peace and love crap,
too much wishful thinking.
Where are the realists, the cynics?
He didn't know shit about work,
but I kept quiet.
He had his dream, and
I had mine.
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