To Whom It May Concern

Some say there's nothing poetic about blue-collar work. I'm here to prove them wrong. What is a poem? For one, it has rhythm. "Well, where's the rhythm in a discordant jumble of a thousand tools all clamoring for dominance over my ears?" It's smack-dab in the middle - where you hear clanging and banging, I hear the smooth, even strokes of a well-swung hammer. Where you hear chopping and whirring, I hear the harmony of a saw producing a masterpiece. What else constitutes poetic achievement? Diction and language. "Well, sure, there's all kinds of colorful language among those types - not the kind of language I meant!" To that, I say, read my musings, hear my words and see if you can say without lie that there's no fine vocabulary present. A coarse man in the company of other similar types, one may come home and show his refined and eloquent side. What is a poem? One more thing it has is sometimes rhyme. "What, now you're going to come right out and say that you all speak in rhyme? You must be joking." To which I reply, look me in the eye, and see if you detect any jest; For those of us down, in the mud and the dirt, may look the sort to be simple and curt; But we can sure rhyme with the best. What do the poetic greats have? A mastery of their form. "Well, here, in this final point has got to be my clincher; There's no way you guys are spitting out haiku and so on." To this I say that here lies the winning facet of my argument, not yours - for you need look no further than the piece before you; Two lines to start, four groups of a dozen, and two at the end - I dare say that that is indeed some kind of form. One more job done, another task complete - this humble poem of frustration and explanation.