That man, he works now that the world has stopped.

All men, in dust, lie dead with motors cold.

Accomplishments of men are always topped.

I see in dreams of box of steel to hold

The world and all its workers, yet this man’s

One hand, or toe, would fill its empty space.

The streets now jingle, shameful sound of cans

And waste, the windy streets, the soiled lace,

The curtains of the world are closed.

   He oils,

And drives the screws of change, his calloused hands

Work the earth. What now springs new from soils

And water?

Trees! And bees, and yellow bands

Of flowers, bears and hares, and all that rhyme

And sing for him who manufacturers time.


© 1990? - Scott Lawrence Lawson