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Tide Flats, Commencement Bay
The mill on the bay
processes night.
An engineered
beast, it never inhales.
Workers have come and gone
on the bay’s sludged tide.
The mill processes them.
It manufactures my sleep.
Poèmes sur le thème : worker
Poèmes sur le thème « worker » sur Poets.by.
Spires
Spires of Grace Church,
For you the workers of the world
Travailed with the mountains...
Aborting their own dreams
Till the dream of you arose--
Beautiful, swaddled in stone--
Scorning their hands.
An Old Workman
Warped... gland-dry...
With spine askew
And body shrunken into half its space...
Well-used as some cracked paving-stone...
Bearing on his grimed and pitted front
A stamp... as of innumerable feet.
Working Girls
The working girls in the morning are going to work —
long lines of them afoot amid the downtown stores
and factories, thousands with little brick-shaped
lunches wrapped in newspapers under their arms.
Each morning as I move through this river of youngwoman
life I feel a wonder about where it is all
going, so many with a peach bloom of young years
on them and laughter of red lips and memories in
their eyes of dances the night before and plays and
walks.
Green and gray streams run side by side in a river and
so here are always the others, those who have been
over the way, the women who know each one the
end of life's gamble for her, the meaning and the
clew, the how and the why of the dances and the