Corrugation

He walked home from work with his corrugated tin life weighing rusted on his shoulders. Sweat, oil, and dust were on his face. The day had passed and his mind had been fully involved in learning to drop in a new transmission, but scuffing down the side streets he longed for a popsicle. Twenty-two, he thought. His hands and mind felt right when they were deep into an opened engine, but what about the rest of the world? Once he had told people of his future, of waters and women and nomads. Should he be proud of his grease-stained hands?