My body is rusting from a proletariat existence,
and my bones have molded into hand tools,
the knuckles in my fingers are looking much like my father’s,
with a leather hand lineage, each day they lift a ton,
with little sympathy for the back that cranes.
When I get home from work, I foolishly assume my passion for
reading or writing, but simply sleep instead on the couch,
then wake up, only to put my glasses down then stagger off to bed.
My dreams of academia have slowly emulsified through years of perspiration,
for my art, is made of stone.