Summer Heat (from the Three word inspiration thread*)

Toiling through my summer job
with the roofers,
stuck in the warehouse
with the burnt-out shop man
and the burning-out drivers,
I can't help but feel
this job grating my palate.
I'm not ungrateful for it, no--
(jobs are tough to come by
and spending-money tougher)
but I'm not meant for it either.
Their roofs are my experiments,
their shingles my cell trays.
I craft with the palette
of cellular processes
and bend them to my will.
And I'll paint a new tomorrow
where people will have the luxury
of calling cancer "minor."

But, alas, it's July and I'm outside,
ninety-five degrees in torn jeans,
greased-up t-shirt and tarred work boots.
I sigh and fork another pallet off the shelf.



*The goal was to use the words palate, palette and pallet in a poem.