The Laborer

Standing outside, Working in the heat, Skin charred and brown, Weathered and leathery. There toils the laborer. He’s fixed at a distance, Huddled with others. Like warehouse items, Tools packed together, Yet to be used. His clothes are caked, Decorated with dirt and dust. They are torn at the sides And unwashed for days— Except from his sweat. But when he comes near, You shy from his odor, Disgusted by the soiled shirt. Avoiding him like spoilt fruit Rotting when left in the sun too long. His arms are creased from overwork, His hands are like bricks, His body is weary and chipped, He is ready to crumble and break Like the rusted tools he carries. Yet he keeps toiling. Ignoring the complaints of the noise Or the accusations of lethargy. Swallowing his pride To earn his allowance.