This Knife is Dull

Frustration.
The smell of rotting broccli.
The careless tractor driver.
The torn rain gear.

My backer tells me I'm missing too much,
But oh how my back is aching
And my water blisters are popping.
But at least I'm getting paid.

Oh, how this knife is dull.
The mud is ankle deep.
The sun is beating down on my skin.
When, Lord, will I get a break?

This farm is so dusty.
It's as dry as a cynical critic.
It's as intimidating as our worst fear.
But it's a job.

After the job I jump in a lake.
I get my paycheck.
I mend my cuts and blisters.
I'm stronger, sharper.

This knife isn't dull anymore.