Written by Joyce Greene
4/17/08

Freezing rain falls on the men.
They wait for crowded buses
Which cart them to their labors
Of pouring heavy cement
And lifting outsized lumber.

Cold wind chills uncovered skin
Of men from warmer places
Where they could not earn enough
To feed their hungry children,
So in despair, they went north.

Each weekday I drive my car
Past the line of staring men.
Many must wish for good jobs,
Inside warm office buildings,
And new cars to bring them there.

But lonely men, far from home,
Most likely will be thinking
Of wives and kids, now well-fed,
With food bought by the dollars,
Earned by men who dream of warmth.