I Am Dirt
If you asked my dad what he did for a living,
he'd say he made dirt.
He helped make the junk that you put on
top of you once they seal your body in a box,
the rusty red shit that gets in your shoe,
the kind of dirt that absorbs air and
tries to identify with diamonds.
Every month's mail dug
him further into debt, but
the pressure pushed
him into a jewel.
He made two types of dirt,
but if you asked him,
he only made one.
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