come on nancy

one job you had
at eighteen was pushing
a wheelbarrow
full of wet concrete
to the bricklayers
along the rising red
stiff wall.
a yellow sun hung
like an egg on the edge.
they cursed you,
laughing at how you
struggled to keep
the hair out of your
eyes, your skinny arms
balancing the sloshing
weight, as you
angled the trough
along a zigzagged line
of boards
towards the waiting
men. come on nancy,
ain't got all day,
sweetheart,
they bellowed
their thick hands
holding cigarettes
and coffee, at seven
a.m.. you worked two
days, then came back
on the third to get
your check of fifty-six
dollar and thirty
three cents, net.