Working Class

I. Daybreak what glint of morning is this where the rusty bloom of chain link fences cuts the turf of rowhouses the weeds still talk with the legs of crickets as the post-dawn moon fades like a bubble here the old Norges and RCAs the transmissions extracted like tongues make tombstones in the yard the scattered habits of a mechanic early chests exhale crankshafts turn Chevrolets on storm are fused to the moment breaking thunder from the curb II. Kids dirt streaked all our bellies were round dirt streaked consulting our nerves with wide open lungs dirt streaked we all ate dirt dug tunnels played trucks dirt streaked the swing set whistled rocking hard in the recesses of an afternoon III. Locked the day lost in some file of physical laws was locked like the hands of the typist locked like beer cans on the porch where a laborer reads want ads fixed like the eyes of the police it’s why chained dogs never stop barking why housewives keep doing their laundry IV. Production nothing to lose come welders with your brilliant rods disarm the dark where the cracks of hell leak out come secretaries run with the wolves again* migrant workers sing the bosses don’t know the words for the prints of innocent men still grip the prison walls the halls of high schools still murder the breath of the original cab drivers pocket the secrets of Washington coal miners dig loose the words hiding under Kentucky the graveyard shift will begin when the city simmers the pot of a quiet army let them tell no loss but the threat of collectors no loss but the sweat of your palms * Taken from an old folktale Published Black Buzzard Press 1982