Walking home from a meeting,

Where a man had screamed at us, telling us how to vote

And who, in those greedy seats of power,

We were told, had the best interests of the people at heart,

I saw a mechanic at work in a small garage on the edge of town.

The sun was dipping low, the clouds were red and yellow

And the tall, thin man, covered in the black blood of automobiles

Slowly stepped out from under a car lifted high

And switched on his lights so he could see by.

How hard he works, I thought,

Long hours and hard labour

I could see the lines on his face,

The hardness of his skin

The thin hungry look he had,

No tax funded office, no chauffeured car.

Long hours, into the night, oil and bleeding knuckles.

Published by David O'Sullivan