The dirt was more than just a nuisance when mixed with salt and caked to a wet, sticky face. Add the pureed remnants of tree bark and predictably, the body temperature was ordered to rise, akin to a roasting charcoal, waiting to combust, while glowing red. The above described affliction found a voice that bellowed so loudly it forced a surrounding, quiet pause. The chainsaws were given a rest, as the workers were undecided whether they should react, instead they ignored the bird chirps, allowing their options to wear off, concentrating on the the next clump of trees to chop. Everyone was used to the outbursts. Yet, no one knew anything about each other. The pay was good, but did not commiserate upon the quality of chatter. There was no time for anything but the task at hand. The workers would never run for office or appear in magazines, that was for the city and its patrons; so what else should be discussed? Still, the men were not without gifts- a sharp focus that had first been identified as innate, now required as a skill-was as robotic as the intent of each saw blade, churning thru leafy sections of a disavowed portrayal and hyperbolized nuisance that no one attempted to blunt. Attention was the difference between a paycheck celebrated with a cold beer, and a poem read at a memorial wake. Mike raised his voice again. That was his name, because his homemade acoustics deemed it so. Of the same frequency and pitch to all, no matter how close or how far away the arbitrary worker was when his ears began to ring. Just as a microphone blanketed a smoky room. Amidst the dust that enveloped the west side of the road, Mike, hopefully it was obvious by now, was the short version of the analogy’s decreed persuasion. Mike saw it differently. He was not placed there by symbolism or to add color, rather, he was there due to intellect and more importantly, by choice. No third-party commentary needed, Mike’s education had not been a privilege or a right. It was just something that everybody did, at least that was Boca Raton before it waffled. Mike played sports and made friends, struck out with the ladies and routinely came back for more. He could not say that he was happy with how his life had turned out, his grades in school were a bit of a mystery. But on the sleepless nights the ceiling fan reminded him of the eternal lottery found in another sunrise. When it was too still to hide from self recrimination, the high speed setting blurred the fear of sensitivity and prepared him for future taunts. Now Mike’s chainsaw was silent, refusing to turn back on, his face painted in frustration, flailing in defiance, against the burden of the ubiquitous debris. How short lived was the marriage between fulfillment and occasion? In a few seconds the throttling buzz of the others would render him meek and without a cause. Beyond, it might find him unemployed. That was the unwavering pulse of the present day Boca Raton, and its threat of breaking another . Without the runaway pace of his blade, Mike would sink beneath the mask of the heaping residue spewing from the combustion of the city. And then a branch fell closely beside him. Had he not been in harm’s way? From now on, in the thickest part of what remained, Mike would not afford himself another distraction. He held his saw to the nearest tree, pursed his lips together and created a low vibration that rumbled as loud as humanly possible. The workers closest to Mike gave him a pre-packaged nod and a quick thumbs up. But the others who were further away, never looked over, not even with a condescending grin, they were only focused on their own machines. Mike promised that later that night he would make his mouth even tighter until he could hum over the whip that echoed from the highest setting on the fan. Skipping ahead, but not enough to destroy all plausibility, Mike felt ready to face the next day of derision, with a poetic solution, he was prepared to ask anyone who still could not hear him why he had not tried harder in math.