Days’ Work
A person prides himself on what he knows
And takes what he can get while he is young.
The fires fight in craggy rocks below
The breath displaces air inside the lung.
A kettle burns itself in smoky tar
And duty tends to falter like the leaves
The line is waxed, the boy is in the bar
The night affirming something he believes.
A movement down the way to lonesome checks
The homes of all the people on the street,
But theirs are hopes of daylight’s bright effects
Its leading for their woe-be-laden feet:
With hints of early morning comes fresh bread
Their stone is full, and horses in the peat.