working class

Good morning everyone,

it’s July, still hot af,

this is a recurring ,

maybe even constant theme,

in our lives here in,

my beautiful ugly,

July hot af,

February cold af,

when you are in the af zone,

a few degrees more or less,

…

oh well.

I have had a notion in my head,

for a while.

Working class….

To me this means,

good, sturdy, honest, real,

not showy, not cheap,

working week,

Sunday best.

To me working class,

is the memory of my,

grandparents,

two of the best people,

I have ever known.

Working class,

is dignity, fatigue,

it’s not flashy or showy.

So, working class is good.

Working class is,

Red Rose tea,

Rolling Rock beer.

Working class is my DNA,

Working class,

is the music of,

Springsteen,

Bon Jovi,

Johnny Cash,

it’s Woody Guthrie,

it’s rooting for the habs,

it’s walking the streets,

where walk the ghosts of,

our industrial past.

It’s chicken and pork chops,

its cookies and apples,

it’s jeans and boots,

it’s shorts and tees,

it’s ball caps and backpacks,

It’s shooting the shit,

with Andre on the balcony,

after doing the dinner dishes,

balconville.

It’s TV and sitting with the cat,

it’s looking over at mom,

and suggesting a snack.

It’s everyday.

It’s reading before bed,

it’s sweet dreams, baby.

It’s my good shirt for church,

it’s Earl Grey special day,

Guinness at the bar,

it’s pie and roast chicken on Sunday.

It’s date night and a movie.

It’s Working week and Sunday Best*,

to quote Jennifer and paraphrase Auden.

It’s the blood that,

runs through my veins.

—————————-

Be well, stay safe,

stay hydrated,

wear a mask.

Later girls,

BB

*W.H Auden-Funeral Blues-

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message ‘He is Dead’.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.