The Workman Poem by Liilia Talts Morrison

The Workman



He sits in silence on a bus
A train, a coffee shop or pub
Most people pass him by because
His clothes are worn and stained

The worker is an unsung man
Who digs and hews and sweeps
With little to look forward to
When evening gently falls

His eyes are glazed from routine jobs
Back hunched though he's still young
A layer of resignation rests
On his much wearied frame

For centuries our world has spawned
The workman for our needs
Yet when we see him on the bus
No one says thanks to him.

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