I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along.
who stand in line and haul in their places,
who are not parlour generals and field
deserters,
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put
out.
The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well
has the shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.