Poetry: Once The Whistle Blows

All these men.
I see their faces,
in these crowded streets.

As if fallen birds -
their hearts like broken bone,
disfigured and misshapen.

Egos are like feathers
concealing the transparent flesh,
which hides the confusion within.

Away from the roughnecks,
jobs keep them civilized.

Once the whistle blows,
Find them clocking out.

from under their bosses'
or fathers' thumbs.

They watch the liquor poured,
throwing caution to the wind.

Their debts and duties---
as if the foaming head
of a lager,
--- to be blown off,
'till morning comes.

---Amber © Jan 02, 2000