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  • Brian M Winningham

Temporary Fence Panels

It’s 6:27AM and I’m pulling onto the site, half-asleep at the wheel.

I don’t remember any of the ride getting from my driveway to here.

One day it will be the death of me, and frankly it scares me to no end,

My truck and I will go straight like Billy did, instead of around the bend.

It’s 11:30AM and I’m having leftovers and my tenth coffee for lunch.

The others are out, eating street tacos and drinking rum punch.

I’m not really sure how I ended up in this role each and every day.

But someone must stay and make sure the workers won’t melt away.

Its 3:31PM and most of the Trades are all heading for home.

In another hour, the Super, Assistant, and PE will also be gone.

Not me though, I’m so far from finished, I can’t even see the middle.

Well, if you are behind from the start, then why isn’t much of a riddle.

It’s 5:17PM and there are miles and miles left until I’m done.

Report, after report, after report, that I still have to finish and run.

Paying dues I understand, but this feels more like just missing out.

I pay all the bills for it, yet barely get to see the inside of my house.

It’s 7:22PM and I have once again missed my family dinner.

My spouse is a saint, but I feel her patience growing ever thinner.

She basically takes the role of single parent in all but legality.

A story told so regularly in this industry as to make it a banality.

It’s 8:37PM and I’m still at the damned construction site.

Another lost evening of missing kissing my kids goodnight.

The last person onsite; before I leave I must check all the gates.

A daunting task in this twilight hour just after half-past eight.

It’s 10:14PM and I’m sweaty and dirty and I ripped up my pants.

I cursed. I yelled. I pleaded. I cried. I went on one hell of a rant.

Half of the temporary fence panels had all been half blown down.

My unhappy reality is, I’ll be back in 8 hours to go another round.

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