Peter Chapman Poetry

workin' man

i picked cherries and heard the men
on their ladders up in the bright fruit
talk about Friday, and their wine

i worked all night, flushing out the tanks
the hides and bones soured in for film

my last day, the guys bought me beers for breakfast,
their lunch pails, their stained khaki the sad holy ground

while many aplomb, lots of us play dumb

like little Horner, that big plumb on his thumb