Thin Sheet; draft #1

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.

Thin Sheet; rough draft

A man and his sign are not much at all
dig those trenches boy until you can't dig anymore.
Smack, pot, high octane forties, the seduction of the screen
pale in comparison to the world that I see
(though my eyes may be Portland fogged in
on a long rainy night).
Lately these long nights I linger awake
the sweat and stink of my breath my armpits my crotch
sing into my nostril airs
also scented a thin sheet pulled tight in this cool but all too warm and humid autumn eve.