I’ve
two men—in my garden, working on my water
Pipe, you’d think it was the tomb of a
millionaire—
Working on their knees, bending
every-which-way
Running back and forth to get a part they
forgot
Or thought they had and didn’t, or to replace
and
Reclaim!
All over a simple water pipe break!
Stabbing the earth to make a ditch—
The clay gleams brown, it’s Good Friday,
and we
Had guests, they had to leave, no use of
toilets!
The two men are driving their shovels,
deeper and
Deeper into the ground, wiping sweat off
their brows,
No hats, no bandannas, dirty sweatshirts—;
plumber
I doubt they are, more like backyard
mechanics:
Muckers who have done such kinds of work
before.
They started at 7:00 a.m., its going on
7:00 p.m.
I think they’ll have to finish tomorrow,
it’s getting dark!
“I know it’s a hell of a job,” and a job
is a job and
They want to live, but twelve-hours, plus,
I could have
Drank a keg of beer in my younger day and
cleaned
The stalls of a dozen saloons. —the day is shot!
Tomorrow who knows what? I guess, when you
hire
Muckers, you get what you pay for,—best to
crisscross
Your fingers, and pray to God Almighty!
No: 4746/ April 3,
2015
