A foundry man
Picture this man. Pipe clenched
in a face of sweat, shovel poised
to deliver the sand to the mould;
just there, where the moulder says
is where, and his muscles do;
time after glistening spot on time.
His grimace a smile of a winking that
he can perform any task you ask and more.
He’s been around, you see, knows all
the dodges and how to tease the youths’
slow growing stature. He’s a work man,
a hard soft man and proud of it.
He knows his place because he made it
his place. It is his cog, and he knows
above and below all, that he is pivotal.
He is his own man in the perfection of
his labour that earns a hard man’s respect.
In the face of the furnace, sherbet water
drooling to cool the cramping sweat,
he is a rod of iron in the softness of
this hard life of ours.
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