Fe para el Trabajador

(for his father)


Crawling home from the edge of dusk,
bitter cold confused. Your back pocket not nearly
the shade of green it once was.
The delicate scent of blue collar cologne
is lost where you last left
the million promises you made.
You’ll defend your purpose,
as you squirm your way
down that long and ever-winding
last dying breath your family will take.
I’ve seen you at your worst,
ancient in demeanor like a man to his cave.
I’ve tasted the heavens at your best,
your touch, your mind, the impressions you make.
I protect that name, I protect that divine grace
that sweeps that hopeless helpless heart
out from under that place
you call home.
You go ahead and hang in and on there,
the sea will change. The dusk will turn to day.



© 2012 Jessica Ceballos, all rights reserved.
This poem first appeared in 2013 Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Volume 30 Number 1