Denim and Sweat-American Man
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We drove through a tunnel,
High upon a craggy cliff.
The day was sunny and breezy;
The Pacific Ocean glistened,
bouncing diamonds off her surface.
Tall firs, cedars and alders
clung to the eastern side of my view.
I looked at my husband,
His Italian American face sculptured.
Beautiful and strong, I thought.
Then half way inside the tunnel,
Hewn out of solid rock I saw them.
Ruddy, tanned, black, brown, sweating.
Flannel shirts, sleeves rolled up,
Denim jeans, leather work boots;
I felt a surge of pride
and threw up a thank you to them.
I smiled at every railroad track,
I noticed every pole and bridge,
and the curvy highway we traveled.
Some ancient, created from muscle.
Then I thought of the softness.
How the rough fingers of a lumber grader,
pinched my fat cheeks.
How he laughed when I whined, Daddy!
When he held his first grandson,
Walking him with a proud strut.
I thought of our soldiers,
I turned away and looked out my window.
My husband driving along,
oblivious of my thoughts.
A tear was rolling down my face.
He would be alarmed.
American Man, I honor you.
"If you have the chance to sit it out or dance, I just say Dance." writen by Mark Sanders recorded by LeeAnn Womack