Work Clothes

Work Clothes


I was raised by generations
of men whose idea
of dressing up meant putting
on a uniform,
men who wore work
clothes or nothing, not
because they owned
just the uniform, though they often did,
but because they were proud
to show anyone
who might see – I have a job,
the uniform screams. I sit
in this restaurant
with my family, (who were just
as proud to be seen with a man
in uniform) eating,
I can sit here, I can have
a family because I work.
I am part of this world.

Now, I sit, dressed better
in my banker finery than my father
at any funeral he's ever attended, watching
the men come in after (hard) work to cash
their checks, oil
stained, mud on their pants, stinking
of grease, sweat, their hands
dirty, calloused, complimenting
the girls (politely) who wait
till the men leave to laugh
at their uniforms.


CL Bledsoe

Posted over on The Orange Room Review