Quarter to Eight

We faced the windy street

. On the way to the job one morning;

Somewhere a whistle growled

The fifteen-minute warning.

There was ice in the wind that blew

From that dead and shrouded sky;

We pushed our hands down deep

In our pockets, Jim Hill and I.

We hurried to keep us warm;

Hill turned and punched his shoe

In the crust on a puddle's face.

The crackling chilled us through.

"Its all right for you, you're young;

But I'd be ready to shirk,

If I had my way," said Hill,

"This outside winter work.

"From girder up to ridge

I've never dodged a bit,

But now my blood is thin

And I've had enough of it.

"A man must do something

To keep his bones alive,

But sitting beside the stove

Is better at sixty-five."

The wind snatched up Hill's words

And whirled them to the dry

Stalks of grass that breathed

An aged, withered sigh.