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workmen MAG
June 21, 2012
strange old men with their own mores
more's the pity,
the world has refused to age with them
and they with it, and so
they come with morning
(do they forgive the day its youth?)
with their big drills
and cigarettes
and boisterous voices
these are their tools
and at breaktime they smoke
and yowl at me in the streets:
“nice legs!”
then back to grinding up the pavement
just to put it back together
the hum-drum-drumming of the drill protects me
at least I know they're busy
and the city's still alive
(I'm still alive, I breathe in streets and alleyways)
and when they hold the door for me,
I still say
“Thank you.”
© Samantha S., Minneapolis, MN
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This article has 2 comments.
InkWriter13 said...
on Jun. 28 2012 at 3:38 pm
Great poem. Wonderfully written in a real and distinct way. Your writer's voice articulates clearly, and for that, I applaud you. Never underestimate clarity in writing. I love how you took a facet of life and gave it life, gave it breath, gave it meaning. It speaks in power, in resonant tones. Loved the poem. Beautiful written again, writer. 5 stars. Would you please comment on my poem titled The Perfect Fit?
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Favorite Quote:
"To these the past hath its phantoms,
More real than solid earth;
And to these death does not mean decay,
But only another birth"
- Isabella Banks