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Calloused Hand

Abandoning the working class

By Dane FullerPublished 3 years ago 1 min read
Calloused Hand
Photo by Sharon McCutcheon on Unsplash

He had travelled from the valley, to attend the union rally.

Joined the comrades in their protest ‘gainst the bosses new demand.

Where they yelled til they were hoarse - united, undefeated force.

Tools replaced with flags and banners in each worker’s calloused hand.

And the speakers stirred the masses, ‘bout the warfare of the classes.

Revolution was the answer, take the factories and the land.

No more wilful exploitation would befoul this working nation.

For deposits had been paid in sweat and blood and calloused hand.

When the speeches were concluded, in a group he was included.

Off to meet and greet a speaker, as his supervisor planned.

But when his grip was firmly locked, and his smile already cocked.

He felt the manicured softness in his hard and calloused hand

And the faithful mob it lingers as he looks down at his fingers,

Cracked and crooked, rough and ragged, weather-beaten, soiled and tanned.

With a sigh he wonders whether, the official there had ever

Laboured sweaty for a dollar, earned a callous on his hand.

With intensifying doubt, he remained to hear him spout.

Mouthing soundbites fit for journos but to him they sounded bland.

For this hack was not a worker, office bound he was a shirker.

Pens and paper, keyboard tapping never made a calloused hand.

And he kept nodding politely, humouring his company slightly.

Let the party man keep boasting, ego starting to expand.

But his mind began to wander, yesterday he was much fonder.

Of the movement which connected men of grit and calloused hand.

Then his temper quickly rises as the suited fraud surmises,

That the working class is lucky to have “me” in high command.

So he walks away disgusted to his vehicle rough and rusted,

While the “saviour’s” chauffeured off without a callous on his hand.

Driving homeward contemplating, rage and anger emanating.

That no longer could he trust the men he should to make a stand.

For the differences had vanished, ‘tween the toffs and those they famished.

Standing shoulder to damn shoulder, hand in smooth uncalloused hand.

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About the Creator

Dane Fuller

My life is a cage but on the page I'm free.

Stories, poetry, anecdotes, thoughts.

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