His Dirty Boots

He works all-day

He hardly has any time for leisure

Monday to Saturday, 9 am to 9 pm

Once 9 am hits, he leaves for work,

The house is clean, not a speck of dirt to be found

Silence left, only squirrels to be heard

Why does it feel lonely yet pleasant in an empty place

Noon, Lunchtime

He calls me to make sure I ate today

I call him to see where he is

Already 4 pm, checking my watch for a time, thinking to myself

Day rushes through like a meteor heading into Earth, dawn decreasing down to bring in dusk saying hello to end the day.

After a long nap, not noticing it is 9 pm

Time has come, the sound of the white truck, vroom-vroom.

He has arrived, the truck engine has been turned off, the trash can is being pulled inside

As he is coming inside

The door gets slammed, loud footsteps up the stairs, thump-thump

He walks in, with his dirty boots dripping concrete powder mixed with soil on the freshly waxed floor

He takes off his shoes, the stench of his feet circulating the area

He throws his dirty boots across the living room

He lays on the couch with a tired look of desperately wanting to sleep

His dirty boots lay in a place, they shouldn’t be

I say dinner time for him to eat with my brother and I

He starts to tell us about his day and how heavy a load his job was

I say he works too much, he says it's the season for it.

As we finish eating, getting assigned chores; dishes, mopping, the bathroom

He doesn’t care to do chores as he says he is tired

I say at least pick up your dirty boots, your grimy debris got all over the floor

With one last call to his mother for a goodnight, he sleeps, hog-shoo-hog-shoo, within the 8 hours til morning for the same day to be done again.