Carl Sandburg-The shovel man
The shovel man |
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. |