The Shovel Man

Carl Sandburg

1878 to 1967

Poem Image

On the street 
Slung on his shoulder is a handle half way across. 
Tied in a big knot on the scoop of cast iron 
Are the overalls faded from sun and rain in the ditches; 
Spatter of dry clay sticking yellow on his left sleeve 
And a flimsy shirt open at the throat, 
I know him for a shovel man, 
A dago working for a dollar six bits a day 
And a dark-eyed woman in the old country dreams of him for one of the world’s ready men with a pair of fresh lips and a kiss better than all the wild grapes that ever grew in Tuscany