buckshot

Every day I watch the construction workers, bulging here and there, heave and hoe out my window. Throwing re-bar this way and that, sawing, hammering, yelling, stammering. I cant help but wonder what it is they think about when their minds wander. When the little wings of their thoughts sprout and fly them away from that second story minefield. What dark womb do they think of? What naked body? Maybe they think about their dog Earl, their new truck, and their best friend Laurence, who they go on much needed hunting and fishing trips, away from their wives, where they share a little more than buckshot and tackle. Maybe they are petaphile's. Maybe they are monkeys. Maybe they think of nothing, minds blank, droning on day after earsplitting day, like a worker bee, slaving tirelessly until the end of time, until dead or too weary to go on. Maybe I think too much. It may be.

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