Dirty men covered in a light scented soap,
sweating out the last rays of light, with pride,
on a steaming hot August day.
There are filthy cars in their way, in a row
for them to shine all their anger away.

Water is scarce as the sun's moving in on the puddles,
rags full of mud dry up fast in the so called afternoon wind

and I sit and I watch how it all comes to pass,
how everything shimmers in a Ford's window glass

Tire smell, a tired smell, fills the wet humid air
and a cigarette burns all the oxygen slowly.
Once-black working boots stumble on a slippery floor
as I listen with awe to an orchestra of slamming car doors

A foggy mist from a hole in a hose cools the breeze
for a few seconds, two, three - maybe more,
while for all eyes, waiting to please,
a pick up truck stands in white-shine galore.

Today, of all days, I turned twenty four.