Dirty Like a Mud Bog Truck

A cement worker in line 
at 4 p.m. on a Tuesday,
buying only nips and a twisted tea,
to burn away the despair of the day.
Flaunting the fact
that life has left you dirty 
and barely running.
You feel like your mud bog truck,
sent full speed through four feet of sand and water
as thick as freshly poured concrete.
Pushing through
the muck of our society
trying not to sink.
Surprised by how
deep the mess is,
wondering if your suspension will hold.
Broken, your engine hisses.
You know even if you make it to the other side,
You can’t come out clean.