Poetry Archives

     Twenty men stand watching the muckers.
          Stabbing the sides of the ditch
          Where clay gleams yellow,
          Driving the blades of their shovels
          Deeper and deeper for the new gas mains
          Wiping sweat off their faces
               With red bandanas
The muckers work on… pausing… to pull
Their boots out of suckholes where they slosh.

     Of the twenty looking on
Ten murmer, “O, its a hell of a job,”
Ten others, “Jesus, I wish I had the job.”