The men that Robbie Fulks writes about are salted.
They've got rips in their shirts.
They smell like work - some like desperation.
They look like hell, but there's still a sparkle in their eyes.
God only knows where it comes from or how it stays lit.
They know where their graves are going to be.
They know where their bread's buttered.
They're sometimes unsure where the next dollar's going to come from, but it doesn't keep them up at night.
Their shoulders and necks are tense, lined with tough meat.
They say a prayer to sundowns and to sunrises all the same, feeling there's something oddly magical in both - even if the sentiment's not returned.