Blue Collar Blues
He’s exhausted, he just doesn’t know it. Trudging on, with wet feet he wears a groove into the same old places he goes every day. His cynicism distilled by pre-dawn alarm clocks, cold floors, sore joints and blistered hands; filtered through layers of work clothes he puts on in the dark as he kisses sleeping cheeks good-bye. His mug of black coffee sits in the cup holder as the defroster competes with the radio. His body driving on auto-pilot as he does the math in his head over what gets paid come payday.
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