and the whistles

and the leers

and the workmen

and the girl

she brings grace to it

arms folded

light smile

head bowed

the eyes linger

two

three times

boys break the grind

fleeting dreams of roses

then swing

and pick

she walks up the road and we all wonder where

where

she might be going

(where we might be going)

one blinks, sad, almost,

watches from the corners of the chat, the pick, the hole

he slips further than he would like

on this friday morning

her ass

black and tight

humble and drifting

he blinks, watches hope travel, and flit

and fly