Let The Laborers Rest

Let the laborers rest, like poetry, the rhyme is in their job, as they hammer the nails, and man the railroads, maids clean someone else's toilets, others fell giant trees, as the waitresses twirl like a ballerina balancing plates amid the din of a crowded diner, migrant farmworkers bend in the savage sun's glare to pick the produce. Let the laborers rest, their aching bodies in sleep's bliss, like poetry, the rhyme is in their job, it pumps their hearts and blood, the rhythm of the workers of the world. A fellow laborer of my brother, was dying of lung cancer, he toiled up to four days before he died. God let this laborer rest, and He closed His servant's eyes. ~