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.