Most poets work for the highway dept. 

There are more of them than there are 

Flies and engineers. 

And I stink like a dead mule under an overpass.

– Frank Stanford “The Truth” 

I keep my hands soft 

for the people I meet after work 

a lip against the hem of my jeans and teeth on the

steel of the belt she found on the common faded

like a stoned out nightjar 

slurping up sweat 

I am first to admit 

I have fetishized manual labor, shaving the fields

with a gasoline scythe 

and stubble on my jaw, 

becoming the object 

in the clutch of an action 

like sex or dying 

but I am not the only one 

with a skull full of pebbles and bottle caps

puncturing my lips, bouncing off aviators

as hips twist left to right, 

right to left, left to right, right to left 

around the headstones or the curb line

my mind in my hands 

and nothing on my mind 

this is penance for my heterotrophic life this is

the realest fucking job I’ve ever had piloting the

trash truck and line trimming miles tugging up

morning glory and weeding in the heat strutting

through the parks, shorn by our hands my naive

faith in the common 

the local brought to bear 

yes 

in the summers I work 

with a man who calls me It 

keeps a handgun in his truck, gas tank busted

and when his battery dies I jump it for him 

to which he says thanks, looking at my tits 

and I'd rather he call me a slur 

than look me in the eye 

but Sherb says he’s suffered enough to let things slide 

and maybe she’s right, letting my skin turn 

in the fields of Amherst 

I let the trash truck careen 

over potholes, on gravel fields past goldenrod in June 

eerie as a witness 

Sherb on the back like a kindergartner’s saint 

her rough hands cutting through barrels 

for change, cash, gems and tools, 

the first time we met she told me just don’t think 

cause we’re both queer I’m gonna like you 

and then she beamed my name 

and me and Michael reminisce about Virginia, 

debate the merits of Sol Lewitt, Winslow Homer, Ari Aster

while shoveling watery shit from the parking garage 

and when I get off I fuck an academic dyke 

with 3 degrees who thinks it’s hot to get fucked by someone

who knows their body’s heft and muscle, 

me and my 2 degrees, and the arms I’ve fed 

hauling brush to a chipper 

and tugging the liners out of trash cans each morning at 7 

to feel rotten coffee 

run down my leg 

smelling it sour in my van at 3 

when I go home, cook shakshuka, and sleep 

12 hours, wake up and go again 

and me and my foreman talk political bodies, 

his love of guns, and the chemicals he handles for his job 

of which he wouldn’t dream of complaining, and maybe it’s not my place but

do you know who takes your trash each week? do you know where it goes to

ferment? do you know how much these people get paid or how long you

could go without them? 

I have a work crush on Joe, 

with his bright polish hair and muscles, we paint 

the kiddy pool with half a can of latex

while we talk dead friends, suicide and God, and

he palms me a rosary the day of my baptism and

the sun seems different 

when you work her every day 

power washing tennis courts with Sherb 

an inch at a time 

getting cajoled by the elderly 

who want to play pickleball 

until the washer explodes 

nearly took us both with it 

and we laugh off death 

our jeans soaked through 

and she tells me that life is too short 

to justify yourself to anyone 

so I guess this is a poem about pride 

and Chris teaches me to drive a three wing mower,

and set design, the logistics of food trucks in LA,

Hippie Speedballs, and a dozen different hangover cures,

and Ian chucks tree trunks like wishbones, and Brian

plays bass to feed his dog, 

and I walk in a bubble of strength 

Sherb and I create, tightening the screws 

on every bench in town, cleaning up Emily’s grave,

cigarettes and juul pods in a company truck,

toothpicks and hot fries and fumes that make us dizzy,

we smell like wet dog, never seen a plug in her ears

not once, that prize dyke, 5 foot 3 no change the way

her hands roll 

through her buzz so easy 

like the lead in a samurai movie 

cause when the motors cut off among headstones

the voices ring out in our ears 

and if heaven is a place you can get to 

I have been 

it’s a good butch 

clapping you hard on the shoulder 

to say you did good today honey, 

and knowing for the moment it’s true 

before we both clock out for good