None of us a stranger to hard work.

Combined hundreds of years at it.

Our achey joints and easy pace tell the tale.

Here because we love this thing – work.


The electricity of anticipation

before the truck roars into the drive

a colossus from Detroit,

more powerful than is sane.

Then we’re jumping —

here to pull the mud,

there to back fill forms,

hands and knees to float the crème,

clean tools, drink water, catch breath.

Two hours later It’s all down.

We stagger to lunch, chat, commiserate.

Then, the voltage down by half,

into finishing, hard trowel, break,

find another detail.


The camaraderie of the job

shining from under those greyed eyebrows

a beer and trip to the river

to grin at old guys working,

not because we have to,

or because we’re getting paid,

but because we love it.