Digger

Scratch off you nail polish, dear,

This job requires dirt under the nails.

By the time you lay in your bed tonight,

You'll be drenched in the stench of ails.

You'll learn to tune out the Father's voice,

Repeating old lines with new names.

It doesn't matter to him anymore

Who's thrown in your six-foot deep frames.

The people in black with tissues in hand

Will leave in their cars with false looks of grief.

In the next morning, on the fourth pages,

Will be written a few gentle, kind words in brief.

And then set aside to be forgotten

While you return to work back in your yard.

This job is horrendous, seeing these people

Who just don't have the time to regard.