New York City's men of earth's salt
work with their hands,
it was the life of their fathers of
Brooklyn, the Bronx, Flushing,
Rockaway,
they sweat, each generation,
no suits and ties in a high rise,
the songs of their tools rhythmic.
This U. S. A. built from the strength
of their backs,
some paying off student loan debts
they took on for their kids,
Uptown snobs raised with the
silver spoon,
in Mercedes and Bentleys pass
them by thinking they're better,
they aren't because the Lord
loves His hard workers under
the merciless summer sun.
They go home at rush hour,
their wives take their workboots
off,
place their feet in a basin of
warm Epsom salt water,
they fall asleep in their
easy chair with the Yankee's
game on the TV on low
volume.
On the weekend they
awaken to the NY Post
and a strong cup of coffee,
on Sundays, they have
black and white cookies,
then, their work-primed
muscular hands hold
worn rosaries,
their steadfast wives
that age with them
wearing lace prayer
veils,
sit next to them in
the pews,
as the priest solemnly
raises the Communion
Host,
as this Labor Day
weekend,
it is a Mass for the
laborers,
amen.
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