Me at the entrance to the cask
room just below our house.
(Yes, it’s rare I smile for pictures.)

i work. yes. i work. it
wouldn’t be right if

 

i didn’t since everybody
else does. and

 

these are my hands. my
hard beat-up

 

hands. mother says they
haven’t been soft since

 

the day i turned ten
(or was it eleven?)