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 the 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MUSIC by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET BEARS AT RASPBERRY TIME by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE BIRTH OF VENUS by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE SOCIOLOGY OF TOYOTAS AND JADE CHRYSANTHEMUMS by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE SMALL SELF AND THE LIBERAL SELF by JAMES GALVIN FRAGMENT by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON |