Calloused hands

There is something romantic about being part of the working class. Those who earn their keep by the labour of their hands follow the ancient tradition of the first Adam who had to work the ground for a living. I think about their hands, gnarled and calloused, moving skillfully, unthinkingly almost, keeping the world we live in from falling into chaos. I think about their skin, tanned from the sun; the wrinkles extending from their eyes, the unpretentious, simple smile, eyes that know that every human being, regardless of class, needs a good meal, familiar company, some money, and a good bed to fall asleep on. Life is pretty simple when you boil it down to that.