The Day Laborer

 

THE DAY LABORER

Fraying at the brim,

A hat with holes

Darkens his face,

Folded and lined.

Beneath long sleeves,

Torn and shabby,

A dirty cotton layer

Shields his arms,

Dusky branches, wizened.

Swinging a pickaxe,

He hacks the ground,

Digging out dirt and rocks

To pay the debts

Of an elephant,

Animal he resembles

As it clambers out of water,

Dripping, shiny, wrinkled.

Filmy, perspiring,

Resting on the long handle

End of his standing tool,

He is almost motionless,

Inert gob of smoldering

Lava in deep time,

Blackened, steaming.

He sighs, heaving for

Ages and ages to come.

Untying his kerchief,

He mops his brow,

Tilts his head upward,

Blinks, fluttering eyelids, 

Tremulous insects…

Sees nothing

But the sun.

 

 

Coffee Farm Worker (1934) by Candido Portinari