poetry 1 min

My Daily Grind

Evan Smith

I sit there

shining,

spit,

shining,

The grass sticks to my leather boots,

And I'm back inside

shining,

spit,

shining,

Until their obsidian sparkle cuts like a knife-

Back outside walking, working,

Crud cakes them like an oily duck in the gulf of Mexico,

Then back inside,

Spit

Shine

Spit

Shine

I see my reflection in Anubis' alabaster face and ask,

Which one am I?

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