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.