Philip Levine Poems
|84.||The New World||1/13/2003|
|87.||The Rat Of Faith||1/13/2003|
|88.||The Red Shirt||1/13/2003|
|90.||The Simple Truth||1/13/2003|
|94.||The Water's Chant||1/13/2003|
|95.||The Whole Soul||1/13/2003|
|97.||They Feed They Lion||1/13/2003|
|98.||Those Were The Days||1/13/2003|
|102.||Waking In March||1/13/2003|
|103.||What Work Is||1/13/2003|
|104.||Where We Live Now||1/13/2003|
|106.||You Can Have It||1/13/2003|
|107.||You Can Have It||12/31/2013|
What Work Is
We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is—if you're
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it's someone else's brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch,...
Mad Day In March
Beaten like an old hound
Whimpering by the stove,
I complicate the pain
That smarts with promised love.
The oilstove falls, the rain,
Forecast, licks at my wound;
Ice forms, clips the green shoot,
And strikes the wren house mute.