The Man From Cihuatlan Poem by Ianaldo Prescott Pourchot

There is a man I work with;
He holds the paintbrush.
He swings the hammer.

From 5 to 3 he paints,
He fixes the pipes,
Addresses their complaints,
And does what they like.

He cuts trees & saws the lumber.
If he needed to gobble it he would.
He winces at the sun, & longs for slumber.
He sings melodic jokes while fastening wood.

From Diana's carriage to Apollo's lyre,
He longs to be with his family folk.
Holding a guitar and some apple cider,
But he digs the road and smells the smoke.

Pinching the rose in the garden graze,
Hands withered and hard like forest pine.
But fear is the Gogh that paints his face
Dark as the stain of willow weald wine.

The man I work with is from Cihuatlan,
Guata la Hara, Acapulco, and Mexico City.
With courtesy we can shed some light upon
What makes him love, what makes him witty!

He works in Riverside, Orange, San Clemente,
Sacramento, San Jose, Buena Park, and LA.
Roaming far to support what he cannot see—
Yet we say 'PLEASE GO! ' and send him away!

There is a man I work with;
He holds the paintbrush.
He swings the hammer.

From 5 to 3 he paints,
He fixes the pipes,
Addresses their complaints,
And does what they like.