After a week of working in the dirt, the car seats get dusty no matter how much we brush ourselves off.
Dry hands, covered in clay and lime and cement all day, washed clean as we are able - no lotion will fix this rough skin,
but joy comes easy when it is found in well worked hands, creases worn deep
with the anguish and exaltation of a young life well lived.
Dirty Blunstone boots tapping on the floor
in time to rap running through car speakers; going seventy miles an hour
down a highway, smelling of earth and sweat - and the biscuit crumbs scattered on the dash
leave behind physical evidence of warm, thoughtful care, the kind that lingers on, deep in your bones,
long after its moment has past.