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.