Poetry
by Phil Brown
THE QUARRY WORKMAN
All day long he dreamt of something cool,
Spitting out the dust - his mouth was full,
His nose was blocked, his eyes were sore and red -
All day in hell, two heavens in the shed:
When he was there he ached with others who
Were dry and deadened, sick of their work too;
They smiled and suffered under that same sun
And drank together when the work was done.
"Work makes a boy a man my old man said,"
He told his wife that night, when he'd been fed,
Still squeaky from the shower and nearly clean -
"But my old man always did tend to dream."
Next morning in the filthy truck the men
Were driven to the pit to start again:
As they began their ritual with a shock
His shovel hit and grabbed the sullen rock.
by Phil Brown
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