PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Leo worked in a papermill

outside of Portland.

The east coast one.

The portrait began of a man,

written by a man,

that could have a portrait,

written of him,

Someday.

But today, he told us of 

Leo,

and rolls and rolls of paper 

to the inside horizon.

Years 'n Years, Days and Days,

that same town

outside of Portland,

Driving down a road so many times

If it were dirt, instead of

Pavement,

the ruts would rub

the underside of the carriage of the car or wagon

(or buns of the warrior worker as he walked).

But he drove,

So no one saw

the path worn through the years

On the asphalt.

There should be a path 

After 30 years.

31 years to be closer to exact, that

I myself drove the pavement.

Not to paper, but to work

I thought a priveldge to do,

Until the words, redundant,

Non-income producing

Position

They put me in became,

well,

redundant.

Filled easily by keepers

of books,

Who pushed the numbers around

to look like incomes.

No more pavement worn job,

No party cake

To say good bye,

Just a road I don't go down

Anymore.

Leo worked in a paper mill.