blister

i felt the pinch going down

now this little spot grows

throbbing with some

satisfaction

and some frustration

my father always encouraged hard work

and i always imagine it would make him proud

to know

my hands

are as bashed and

bruised

as they are

and in the temple

of that bloody

subterraneous

river

somewhere breaths

my contempt

for i wish

i

was

a

poet

or something like one

so that my hands

could get a slight

reprieve

but oh well

out comes the knife

which sounds so much better than

the needle

tink

tink

tink

as the mark is slowly,

archeologically

dug to the surface

like a springing forth of oil

as blood and puss push forth

from the derrick

and then the pressure is gone

and with the

peroxide foam

is washed away and again,

nothing

to show

the old

man……

no time anyhow

still plenty of work to get done…