Working Man
working man
early, six days
before dawn
while I, still curled
warm in bed, listen
he leaves
whispers goodbye
as he passes my door.
every day
as the noon whistle blows
I carry his lunch pail
we sit surrounded by scents
wood, varnish, turps
sunlight washing over us
sandwiches, hot tea and stories.
at night I wait
perched on the stoop
watch him stride
down our street
swinging his arms
dusk crosses the avenue
behind him
a tram bell clangs
gaslights flicker on
in rows of windows.
we are the engines
he says
we make the world
move forward.
Copyright © Patricia Cresswell | Year Posted 2017
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