One hour at a time

The way a man works when his boss is around.
How he fails most often only at sitting down.
Taking breaks in between giving breath.
Risking health, increasing wealth, one hour at a time.
The skin crack filling oil turned black,
soot brown and red clay, dead gray,
swirling wind teasing ash twirling above, beyond, away from fire.
That raspy roaring smudge dripping chipped off-white dust spraying
chainsaw, teeth eating straight lines through just now living wood.
Flakes of tulip poplar stuck to his wool sweater.
Oil dotted pants looking wet staining free denim.
And the person who pays him.

He sees her in the window watching.
This is his chance. To make her regret the glance.
To stop the boss once and for all from looking out.
He will saw to pieces, split quartered and stacked,
every thick gray wrapped stump of her doubt.

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