poetry
1 min
My Daily Grind
Evan Smith
I sit there
shining,
shining,
spit,
shining,
The grass sticks to my leather boots,
And I'm back inside
shining,
spit,
shining,
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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