Haunted by the odor
Of a past
Shamed by
Nearby townsfolk
Stan is
Taunted for living
In the tannery breeze
From the West
Where sweat sticks to
Hard earned dollars
Metal chips nestle
Into pant cuffs
Sawdust magnetically attracted
To oil covered callouses
Becoming a symbol of
Something more
Than honest labor,
Simple comforts
To a proud craft
Char and flames
Forge something
Deeper within
That is now lost
To all but a memory
Floating down an avenue
Sweetly enticing
With the aroma
Of smoky bacon
Over fruitless branches
Causing a fragrant contemplation
Of a generation
Always scented
Of home
And a glorious hero
