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thirty-six, six-two, and two hundred and forty pounds, smiling
a gentle giant filing piles of 2 bys on the dewy ground,
six thousand miles from home, alone and stuck,
living off the sweat and pain, it grows
10 bucks an hour, and no apologies
splinters, dirt and snow.

one day he'll go back,
and sit on his brand new chair,
on his brand new porch,
next to his brand new house,
and wonder why he ever left.

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The following comments are for "illegal alien"
by IlichVladikov

This one reads better than your previous poem. I read it as the story of a number of illegal aliens, who are driven and hard working and willing to do whatever it takes to feed their families miles away. Nice touch at the end.

I would however consider changing "filling piles" to "driving piles" and "on the dewy ground" to "into the dewy ground"

( Posted by: poliarch [Member] On: October 4, 2005 )

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