Crushed stone from Ben Vane vibrates the conveyor
as mother takes tiny, measured steps, making
small alterations to fall in behind
her father, the tailor, who worries the tape like a rosary.
In dirt and dungarees, the men look up and shake
their heads to loose the sweat. Half-blind
from concrete dust, cursing their luck, their history,
they dam all with a shrug of round, taut-muscled
shoulder. The tailor unpockets a notebook
making pencil sketches for an inventory,
as the Polish foreman (made-to-measure) is hustled
into thoughts of how he’ll look
come pay day. Fingering samples, giving a brusque
but non-committal nod to the cloth-blue dusk.