Someone once told me about a man,
He polished shoes  all his life
Every hour, every day, he had no wife,
And then he went to heaven.
I, I polish men.
They come to me, uncut blocks of stone
I chisel them carefully, my soul's torn
But  there's  an edge still undone
A sand papered finger across his jaw
Blowing gently on his lips, I draw a whiff
Of the women he will kiss. I'm stiff
And weary, there are bags beneath
my eyes, bags he laces with the sheath
Of my sleepless nights, as he leaves
To adorn someone else's ring,
As always, I wait for morning.