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...
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