He woke up to the call of a rooster,
The kind that threatened to shatter the sky
If he didn’t let the sun penetrate his eyes
That were tucked tiredly beneath folds
Of skin the color of a brown sunburn

He placed his weary, screaming feet
Upon an unforgiving floor
That had been swept the night before
And rubbed himself free of sleep
To drag himself to the fields
The place where hell resided

He winced whenever he turned

His back to the sun to allow her
To scorch and bleed his skin red
As he bent over to prey upon
The viscous, unforgiving thorns
Biting his fingers every time
He stole one of their tomatoes,
Sometimes easily blending in
With the shiver of his blood,
The kind he hoped would mean
Something to someone someday
As the running of his sweat
Mixed with the rhythm of his breaths,
Unaware of the baby girl
That he would someday hold in his arms,
That would steal what he thought was his:
The warmth of his eyes
The smile that was sometimes pretend
The strength to persevere,
No matter the number of tears
Colliding with his tired, broken skin.