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See him there, against the grindstone,
day by day he toils and sweats.
An hour he wants - but please, alone -
the hour just piles upon the debts
he’ll always pay, and he’ll not swindle.
But how fast those hours dwindle
into minutes, breaths, smaller still.
The moments between words add up.
Their questions come, as questions will,
but gaps cannot be caught by cup.
Just an hour, without distraction,
that’s enough to give him traction
on the task he’s come to love,
the task at which he’s able.
But his role is different now, above,
and he has yet to yield his label.
An hour he’d take, if it were tendered.
The days that have passed will long be remembered.

© Rich Lawrence 2018-2021