I Am The Working Man Poem by Brendan M. Rumney

Work is a task
In which these hands
Process a certain proportion
In which I handle everyday
I am the working class
You look at me and I stand
With these hands
Cracked and crimpled to black
Showing every detail of my load
You not even having a sense of what it is like
My face drenched in sweat that savors my neck
With ash and muck seeped in my skin
Day in, Day out
With not even a smucker
You turn, think of pity, turn away
Someday when you need work done
And you stand looking at me
Remember these hands
I am the working man