We stand in the rain in a long line <br />waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work. <br />You know what work is--if you're <br />old enough to read this you know what <br />work is, although you may not do it. <br />Forget you. This is about waiting, <br />shifting from one foot to another. <br />Feeling the light rain falling like mist <br />into your hair, blurring your vision <br />until you think you see your own brother <br />ahead of you, maybe ten places. <br />You rub your glasses with your fingers, <br />and of course it's someone else's brother, <br />narrower across the shoulders than <br />yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin <br />that does not hide the stubbornness, <br />the sad refusal to give in to <br />rain, to the hours wasted waiting, <br />to the knowledge that somewhere ahead <br />a man is waiting who will say, "No, <br />we're not hiring today," for any <br />reason he wants. You love your brother, <br />now suddenly you can hardly stand <br />the love flooding you for your brother, <br />who's not beside you or behind or <br />ahead because he's home trying to <br />sleep off a miserable night shift <br />at Cadillac so he can get up <br />before noon to study his German. <br />Works eight hours a night so he can sing <br />Wagner, the opera you hate most, <br />the worst music ever invented. <br />How long has it been since you told him <br />you loved him, held his wide shoulders, <br />opened your eyes wide and said those words, <br />and maybe kissed his cheek? You've never <br />done something so simple, so obvious, <br />not because you're too young or too dumb, <br />not because you're jealous or even mean <br />or incapable of crying in <br />the presence of another man, no, <br />just because you don't know what work is.<br /><br />Philip Levine<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/what-work-is/
