The Work Ethic of my Father

In his arms are copper mines,

The pulse they work his drums.

Digging up unearthly, glittering, dashing multitudes

Common men, molded, stamp mere dimes

Yet it lingers within eyes that see

Evinces a tic or spastic twitch of fury.

For all glance in bravado at the sun

Yet turn, clutching shame

--A human conundrum

But the music of hard hats tumbling

Will never sound at day’s end

Only

The beat that keeps on thrumming, thrumming, thrumming

Pulsing in increasing depth

Makes way to shelter,

Tunnels mountain passes called home,

In daily thoughts, it's wary, but

Moves its arms without caring, production relentless

and Enduring until dead

Inspiring.