Greasy hands, dirty nails
Bleeding daily from sharp impale.
Much maligned, a public joke
End of the week, still broke.
Days to weeks, months to years
Nothing but dirt , oil and gears.
Getting older in the back and knees
Trying to keep up, customers to please.
Never saving, no future in mind
Wanting to change, caught in the grind.
Time has passed, a wasted prime
A life of regret, not worth a dime.
By JA
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Great poem! God bless your husband and God bless the work of his hands!
Thanks, Ryan! He’s an artist and musician, too!
That’s cool! I play a little guitar myself. 🙂
Wow!!!!! Ahhhhhmazzzing… And oh so relatable.
Glad you liked it! I told him I was writing poems and he wanted to play, too. I may have to set him up with his own blog!
He did a fine job.
Right!!!
Fantastic poem, Mr. Adams! I always have the greatest respect for mechanics. They are life savers.
Thanks, I will pass this along . I think he’s a wizard in the shop !