The broken laborer

In the morning, the sun rises
      and shines through his broken, dusty window,
             waking him from his intermittent sleep,
      and beckoning him to the wearisome toil of the day.  

He runs his worn fingers
      through his otherwise unkempt hair
            and rinses his face in the cold water
      from the damaged, rusty basin.

And while looking in the mirror,
     he sighs…
       looking into the eyes
                  that ask him why? and when? and how?

He finds his tattered shoes next to his tattered mattress,
     and finds his way out to the alley below,
          and onto the streets beyond.

Perhaps he will eat today.  
     Perhaps he will find the money to
          replace those tattered shoes
               that rest nightly by his tattered mattress–
          his lonesome resting spot on the floor.
               Perhaps he’ll pass on,
                    finally leaving his long-worn troubles behind.

But instead, he finds his way to a dock
     in hopes that someone will spot him
          and see that he can work…
               see that he is hungry…
          see that he has barely held on
               to what shallow hope he has,
                                                           if any.

And somebody does spot him,
     and does give him work,
          thus adding one more day to his life,
     and something to abate his unending hunger.

And when he gets home,
     to his damaged, rusty basin,
          his broken, dusty mirror,
     and puts his tattered shoes next to his tattered bed,
          attempting to forget the alley below,
               and the streets beyond,
          he wonders where things went wrong.  

And in the morning, the sun will rise
      and wake him through his broken, dusty window.
He will run his fingers through his otherwise unkempt hair,
      and rinse his face with the cold water from the damaged, rusty basin.

And while looking in the mirror,
      he will sigh, and look into those eyes
            that always show their sorrowful queries,
      never quite finding the answers,
            but hopeful still
                  to leave their long-worn troubles behind.