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Poem

It doesn't always work all of the time.
I can't recall a day in my 2 weeks here
that I've successfully managed to suspend my decline.
I go to work in my usual way,
I stare down to the ground as I make my way,
but more times than none someone will call out and say,
"Hi Kidster! How Ya Doing? Ready for another work day?"
I then have no choice but to look up from the ground
and acknowledge a response to that kind person's sound.
However, as I look up to do so, I make eye contact
with an individual who lost a loved one on the 9/11 attack.
It's in their body language. I can spot them from the corner of my eye.
They're fitting in with the crowd despite the held back tears in their eyes.
I'm Honored To Be Working On Their Sacred Ground.
I'm Honored To Be a small kog in the work force that will build a monument so sound
where all they who lost loved ones so horrifically profound
can all visit and pay their respects upon this Sacred Ground.
It's a labor of love/hate job that I endure everyday.
It's more a sense of duty than a job when I begin my work day.
The labor is brutal, more brutal than you might be able to imagine,
but the labor is a small sacrifice to pay to give these bereaved mourners some Salvation
from the sorrow of lost loved ones who so unfairly, innocently and unexpectedly,
had Their Lives So Horribly Taken.

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