a days work

when I was twenty
I remember standing
beside
the men
in winter clothes,
boots, shuffling to stay warm,
some with hats.
unshaven.
smoking. hands in their
pockets. tool
bags at their feet.
they were my father's age.
they had
little patience for the world,
but there they
were at seven in the morning
listening
to a man much younger
than them
giving orders for the day
as to who will do
what, where,
and when. he told them
Friday
is payday.
lunch is thirty minutes.
if you're late
in the morning, go home.
the skeleton of the building
groaned with wind and setting
concrete,
the new iron, steel bones
as we climbed
the stairs up twenty floors
to begin doing
what we were told to do.
the slow ones were let go.
as each floor
was finished
even more were given pink slips
and checks.
somehow I made
it to the lobby, then told
to leave.