I'm walking out of
the Nordstrom Rack store,
sky as dark as the
asphalt of the parking lot
under my sneakers. I'm
not wearing a jacket even though
the Weather App said it feels like
twelve degrees Fahrenheit outside.

But I'm not that cold--
my hands are still warm
from the laborious inventory work
I wound up excelling at.

I can't say I'm surprised, though.
I was born and raised
on hard work; knew it
before I knew my ABCs.

My thumbs are a deep pink,
angered from picking up
shoe after shoe after shoe
for nearly five hours. Deep
grooves and torn skin
accent the pink hue.

As I stare at my
worn-out fingers,
I can't help but wonder
if this is what I'll
end up doing with my life...

Am I meant to
follow the career path
laid down for me
by my family? Will I one day
inherit my father's tough,
callused hands; or his father's
overworked knees--
all from pushing my body
to its limits just to
barely make it by?

A, B, C, D--
will I eventually fulfill
A Blue Collar Destiny?