Now he is a rippled body of ink, grit and spit,

Wrestling chunks of junk in the wired cage,

Gazing upon the world with a frenzied blankness,

Ignoring tired calls from the boss to go home.

Not that long ago he was small,

Frolicking under a sprinkler in the backyard,

Sitting on the bench as his mother fed him warm pikelets,

Wondering when his father would come home.