By Mark Constance He rose before the sun each day Work shoes laced tight—no time to stay
Coffee black, the news left on—
Warmed up the car, and just like that … gone He worked with grit, not polished charm A steady back, and tattooed arm
His words were few, his smiles rare
But he was always, always there In his way He wasn’t soft. He wasn’t sweet He barked commands, not kind repeats
But when life knocked us off our track
He’d fight like hell to …
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