Getting things done


American Life in Poetry

When I was a nasty little kid, I once made fun of a girl in my school because her father worked cutting up dead animals at a rendering plant.

My mother sat me down and said, “Ted, all work is honorable.” I’ve never forgotten that.

Here’s a fine poem about the nobility of work by Sally Bliumis-Dunn, from her book Echolocation, published by Plume Editions, Asheville, North Carolina. The poet lives in Armonk, New York.

Work

I could tell they were father and son,

the air between them slack, as though

they hardly noticed one another.

 

The father sanded the gunwales,

the boy coiled the lines.

And I admired them there, each to his task

 

in the quiet of the long familiar.

The sawdust coated the father’s arms

like dusk coats grass in a field.

 

The boy worked next on the oarlocks

polishing the brass until it gleamed,

as though he could harness the sun.

 

Who cares what they were thinking,

lucky in their lives

that the spin of the genetic wheel

 

slowed twice to a stop

and landed each of them here.

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