For 100 days of summer and 300 days of winter

I heaved a shovel. I was digging. I sweat and I froze

and my head throbbed. Pains ran down my legs like urine.

The same shovel on the same dry earth on every different day.

I’m out here with all the other thirsty workers getting paid what?

A dollar a day. One day, one dollar, enough to sharpen a shovel once a week.

On the 401st day the last blister on my palm broke open and ran clear.

Pain snapped down my arm, wounded hand refused the handle.

Feet enraged by endless dust kicked the useless shovel,

mouth twisted in mean disappointment, and a wail

swallowed in the belly. I fell, kneeling, to the earth.

Furious, uncontrolled, I scratched my way to

hope.

moves and removes