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9/5/07

Roustabout

Most often he is away, more away than home.
Work keeps him busy, always at their beck and call.
Such is the life of a roustabout, oil is in the blood.
Crude the smell, the stench of money.


He thinks of his family while away,
working to keep them fed and warm.
He is lonely, even though the crew is there.
Lonely is the man whose wife silently cries for him.


The world around is barren, only the wolf calls.
Mesquite trees, rattlesnakes, cactus, decorate
his open temporary home. The sky is his roof,
the dry sand his floor, the wind and dust
his family, he is alone.
Years of time spent away, no memories to brighten his day.


As with time, it passes his children have grown.
They know not the father,
who worked to make them a home.
Such is the life of a roustabout
who works in the oil fields, always gone.

Time slips away for all that hard work and no play.
Coming home to empty beds and silent halls.
Only the woman you love to welcome you home.
You worked so hard, yet the children are gone.

2 comments:

Ambre said...

What a lonely existence...

Marja said...

Changing the lonely hardworking existence in poetry.

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