The hard stare,
the stiff upper lip,
the cocky bark,
and the smart *** reply
elevated to an art form
are old habits by now.

Polished by years
of abuse from guys like himself,
like cons in a prison yard
exploiting every crack
in a newbie's facade.

He flips the radio on
while stopped at a red
on the drive home
from the job site,
after a day of kicking around
his new apprentice,
with the soft hands
and boyish face.

And turns to goosebumps
hearing John Lennon's voice
sing the long forgotten lines
of a song about the working man.

A drop forms in his eye
as he listens,
and he blinks like he’s trying
to **** it back in,
but it falls,
runs down his left cheek
like a tiny river
across the desert.

He angrily wipes it
with his sleeve,
(another old habit)
switches off the radio,
and shifts in his seat.

Then he looks around to see
if anyone saw him do it,
but the people in their cars
are all staring straight ahead
waiting for the green.