I see her through the dust of diggers
working harder than any man around.
Her dreams, hopes and longings
power sun-bronzed arms and thick-gloved hands.
She reeks of femininity,
but would never cop to that in a bar.
Her scent cuts through diesel fumes
even as she swabs sweat with her Tee.
She is gorgeous and I want her
in her sunglasses, mud boots
and cascading black hair
tucked up under her hard hat.
I want her that way to start
and then she'll, we'll, reveal the woman;
the diamond in the rough and tramel
through which I still can see her.
I want to push back her shades
and help her let one longing go.

I asked
and she graced me with a reply.
"Tell me your name."
"Lisa," she said, "Lisa."

I think not.
"Wonderful," it might be.

In the deep of night
it is "Muse"
as she bends over my ear,
clad only in her yellow hazard vest
to whisper dreams
of romance and lust.

I can smell her;
the fragrance she splashed on
now tangy with sweat
and musty with fumes.

She will shower
and I can see her.

She unfurls her long, dark hair
like a negligee.
Water drips from all her lips
like an elixir to wash away
the ravages of the street.
She caresses her body
back to womanhood
with eyes and strong, gentle fingers.

"Lisa" it might be,
but "adorable" to me.

I know what she looks like
by day when I can see her
and by night
when I dream of her.

I do not gamble, ever;
but I am willing to throw the dice
to see if she would roll
and manhandle me
like the machines she wrestles,
or, instead, lie still and waiting
like the gravel she has pounded
into an accepting bed.

I do wonder
every time I see her.