Watching twelve young men digging ditches
Thrusting their shovels into the rocky packed soil
Beating out a thumping rhythm hour after hour
Six days a week I am witness to their work
Excavating long trenches around the neighborhood
Such hard labor and yet they are in good spirits
To judge by their exhausted talk at the end of each day
Laughing and joking with each other
They speak Spanish among themselves
Their orange shirts identifying them
Never engaging with the residents here
Nor do I as I stay inside keeping my distance
Two times in my life I have had to do that
Digging just a short distance to bury a water pipe
Never lasting for such long hours as them
Stopping collapsed every muscle done in
No machine could do the digging like they do
Removing the sod carefully then replacing it
Leaving only a faint trace of their toil behind
And giving no hint of where they will go next
But a backhoe would be doing it anyway
If that cost the owner less than their time and effort
Of course these are people who deserve to be well paid
But I expect their wages come dirt cheap
I have the urge to go out and embrace them
Shouting their praises for all to hear
But I practice restraint knowing not to interfere
And instead acknowledge them using these words
