Morning is a bitter, gray fog–
a dirty cough into calloused hands–
the same hands that load tools to trucks
that mean American Dream.
Day peaks and they dig without complain–
dust falls on their frowning mustaches
color of early morning darkness,
which they learn to wake up in, without complain.
Each strike of their tool
comes with gray groans
that follows them home to family.
But they understand, a small
clean hand should meet a book
and never a tool, never the bitter, gray fog.