Labor's fallen out of favor but not for lack of want or need. Yanked out from under the feet of at least fourteen million men and women; a man made disaster. Their collective vacant stare - familiar to victim and onlooker alike of all calamities - casts a dark stain over the country.
The "United" States of America has lost all the grand and well deserved metaphorical accolades it once so deservedly earned through the toil of its citizenry reaching common ground amidst vast differences and the temporary wounds of sacrifice shared for the greater good.
It feels odd and dirty and shamefully appropriate to surround the U in USA in quotes this Labor Day. I mourn the loss of my own reverence.
And so out of bewilderment I'll pivot towards the poetry of Philip Levine, the newly appointed poet laureate. I'll appreciate the irony of his association with Detroit, a place synonymous with Work (capital W intended), delight in the effort required of plainspoken wisdom and pay hommage to him and to the ideal of Labor Day by reading the title poem from his Pulitzer Prize winning collection of poetry, The Simple Truth.
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