He did it all: he laboured for the others.
He mopped the halls, he mucked the stalls
and scratched the master's back.
He did the work, the picking and the plowing,
with unclenched hands and a tongue held slack
and a body bent from bowing.
He did it all: the unappealing drudgery,
and he did it well (everyone agreed),
and he did it so that others would succeed.
And, in this way, with words written down,
like a poem, though dark, we dedicate his cause;
if you think you might have known him,
save a moment, give him pause.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, J.D. Heskin would be
pleased to hear them.