Labor Day
He never made retirement—
palmed sallow watch.
Years bled bloodless,
stooped obliquely
in steel mills.
Mother said
he was tired—
so tired
as he drank
last days in liquid slurs.
The mill closed
after his death—
now both rustle bones,
remember russet dreams
of molten metals
faint as old billboards
whispering what once was
but never was
in rust-washed wind.
Copyright © Glen Enloe | Year Posted 2005
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