ON the street
Slung on his shoulder is a handle half way across,
Tied in a big knot on the scoop of cast iron
Are the overalls faded from sun and rain in the ditches;
Spatter of dry clay sticking yellow on his left sleeve
And a flimsy shirt open at the throat,
I know him for a shovel man,
A dago working for a dollar six bits a day
And a dark-eyed woman in the old country dreams of
him for one of the world's ready men with a pair
of fresh lips and a kiss better than all the wild
grapes that ever grew in Tuscany.

Added: on June 2nd, 2005 at 12:15 PM | Viewed: 3722 times | Comments (2)

Poet: Carl Sandburg
Poem: 13. The Shovel Man
Volume: Chicago Poems
- Chicago Poems
Year: Published/Written in 1912

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