THE SHOVEL MAN

     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 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.