The cold is the worst.
When you're sitting and you can't warm up.
The brutal winds make it worse.
The ice and snow flies sideways.
It hits me in the face.
It freezes to my beard.
I know I have seven more hours to finish my shift.
My boss is yelling at me to speed it up.
He's sitting in his warm pickup truck.
I see the steam rising from his coffee cup.
He's watching every move I make.
For two cents I'd walk off this damned machine.
I'd pull him out of his truck and kick his ass.
I'd never look back.
I'd trudge through the mud and snow.
I'd get in my truck and never return.
I'd set my heater at full blast.
I thought this thought on many a day.
But I stayed on my machine.
I was a "good German".
I pulled my levers to move his dirt.
I did this for thirty-five winters.
Now it's over.
Some days I long for the wind in my face.
The icicles in my beard.
Just so I can feel something.