He Wears His Clothes Hard

He wears his clothes hard Some ladies wear their clothes So gently; wear it a few hours, take it off Fold and put away. The clothes never show A hint of wear, living out lives barely used In graceful and orderly dresser drawers. Not him: he wears his clothes like a rock ledge Wears a sledgehammer, like a shovel Makes love to a ditch; like a hammer Loves a nail; his clothes would scream out For relief and justice, if they had a voice, Worn out so soon before their natural lifespan: His clothes need their own union. His clothes are a Turin's shroud of evidences Of toiling days spent at work: He does not spare them the rod He never spares them anything A stain often testifies to chemicals; Naval jelly or caulking; black signifies grease The three dimensional stain, that foaming insulation stuff Which always adds interest; and tiny holes eaten from battery acid- His clothes color coded by project and date. He has one closet of clothes for all things; A shirt and pants; they be worn Both for concrete pour, and corporate meetings Utilitarian for any and all needs; his clothes don't get a choice They appear the same at all functions Unlike women, who want a dress nobody has ever laid eyes Although the rare formal appearances; Deaths or weddings, taken care of by a suit Which, thank god, didn't have to put in its sullen time Mending fences, or changing oil in engines. Piles of outfits often appear in only one day; Of a morning the floor was clear, but by bed time; One pile represents the day's first heavy equipment work, Another set for some scheduled repairs in an office, And a final set for more outdoor drudgery- If one set of clothes suffice for all duties, why then Three piles? Apparently there is the contamination factor; By which one suit for working was contaminated by the work Done earlier, and required a new vestment for the same work Done later; and of course, a large washing machine Is the minimum investment for the one-closet man, Who wears his clothing hard, and often.