He was like that, stubble scattered with sand.
Hair like dusty white hay. Hard hat at an angle.
Swaggering, as he hurled a hammer, slopped cement,
laid the bricks. Trousers slung low on his hips as if
he had a six shooter in each pocket, instead of
a packet of nails, two monkey wrenches and a spanner.
An urban cowboy baring the curve of his buttock,
and the nick of his bum where his Y fronts had slipped.
And those hands, the gritty shovels that scooped the soil,
turned the screw, grasped the spade and the grubby pint pot.
His wet lips sucking on strong tea like a vacuum cleaner
sending dribbles down his chin and bristling chest hair.
No time to eye up the girls now, work to be done
schedules to meet. Not politically correct either
to whistle at legs or comment on bouncing boobs.
He'll wait till he's out on the town on Friday night
with cash in his pocket, leaning on the bar with his mates.
Knows the girls all liked a bit of rough sometimes,
especially if they were like him and scrubbed up well.