Construction

I want to be a construction worker

I want to have rude friends who spit well, fart better, and burp best

I want to swear with the same mouth that kisses my mother

I want to blow my nose with my hands while working in the noon-day sun

I want to be forever yelling obscenities for no reason

amongst the drumming of hammers and the whining of power tools

I want a deep tan the color of wet, southern clay

and my hair to bleach platinum

I want my feet to feel secure in steel toed shoes so I can kick dogs, cats, and co-workers

I want every fingernail to be rimmed with grime

and the life and love line on my palm to be irrevocably stained with work

I want to feel my muscles remain tight after a full day of moving lumber and driving nails

But most of all, I want rain

I want rain so we can ride in the back of a pick-up truck

and head to the local tavern to wait for the rain to pass

I want to kick up my feet and order a draft

I want my buddies to hoot and holler and make our presence known

I want to slap my waitress' bottom and leave a dollar tip

So then I can sling beers and gaze out the window

to look for the sun that allows us all to do it again.