PERSON Poem: Ode to a Working Man, by Leah Skay

My father stands in the hallway of
the house he still pays for
and begs me
to keep my dreams alive.
Callouses on his hands echo centuries
long-dead and smothered,
bloody aprons
railway spikes
dirt, soap, and disappearances.
He builds me
scaffolded on ice-cold overtime
slipped discs
refusing painkillers
for the sake of the suffering.
He offers me a pen and a history,
workers, mothers, swallowed by time and debt,
safe passage to wine-drunk libraries,
degrees in hubris and luxury
all the people who told us
dreams don’t pay unless you ask
nicely.
“Leave the subtlety
to the people
who pay to fix what is beneath them
and tell them
who you are.”
When I make it
and I will make it,
I’ll purchase him a good bed
my mother will rest in alone.

Author: poetryfest

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