Ode to Joes. (L)

Joe was your average, well, Joe. He worked hard for the money and didn’t ask any questions. The kind of guy you see driving the old Chevy truck down the 407. You don’t ask him where’s he’s going, you don’t even give him a second glance. Burly kind of fellow who likes his beer cold and his onion cheeseburger hot of the grill. Guys like Joe come a dime a dozen. They come and go as they please and they disappear into the night. If you asked Joe where he came from, he would simply grunt and give his beer another sip. Strong silent type. Not a care in the world. Just the smirk on his face, and a cigar pack wedged into the back pocket of his navy blue work overalls. Seems like a no body, but guys like Joe keep our world running. They work in our oil refiners. In our shipping docks. In our forests and in our farms. You may even see them in your city, picking up your garbage. Building that new condo and fixing that old fence. They eat and they sleep. The come. And they go. You see them once and their gone. They are the back bone of our country. To all the Joes in the world -- thank you.