The dead dry grass stings the
bottoms of my feet
As I walk out into the oppressive sunshine,
Dry heat boiling my skin,
Dust burning my eyes.

"These chores won't do themselves"
he had said
As he sat reclined in the chair,
Cold beer in his hand,
Television turned to some insignificant event.

So I work and I toil and my skin continues to boil
And my blood does, too;
My shovel and hoe wage war against
The ground.

KW '12

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