Friday, March 23, 2012
A factory worker balances his bicycle
As he crosses the busy suburban street;
His little girl sits on the seat half-asleep
And his son, with all the maturity
Of his ten years, walks beside him
Holding his rough and calloused hands.
The cars are zooming by, quite unaware
Of the masterly precision that they see:
His clothes are dirty with soot and grime
And face lined with wrinkles of hard years.
He carries a limp from an old wound
But the cycle in his hand does not wobble.
He carries with him riches far more precious
Than in the vaults of an uptown bank:
The girl for whom he is all the world,
And his bright eyed boy who still believes
There is nothing his father cannot do.
There will be days when his world will be dark,
But not today, as he crosses the busy street:
The dreams of his daughter are his own now,
And his son’s persistent stream of questions
More musical that any song he ever heard.