A man stands hands holding high a sign
and as an aside he digs trenches boy 'til he can't dig no more.
For every road a trench and these trenches are deep.
Ten feet deep built to hold fortunes of gold.
And though his eyes may be Portland
fogged in quiet
on a slow rainy night,
lately I linger awake.
The sweat and stink of my body
sings into my nostrils' airs
and the also scented thin sheets pulled lightly-tightly over my naked body
in this calm but all too warm and humid autumn eve.
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