Muckers

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 murmur, "O, it's a hell of a job," Ten others, "Jesus, I wish I had the job."