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“You see that pail?” he says,
both asking a question and
making a statement in the same breath.
“Every day he brings it with him,
and every day it’s empty.”
Every day,
working himself to exhaustion,
he carries the empty pail –
full of promises,
of hopes,
of dreams,
of the future.
Every day,
when the noon whistle blows,
the other men take out their pails,
and pull out sandwiches, fruit,
last night’s lasagna.
But not him.
He sits down with an empty pail,
allowing a hunger to burn
inside him –
a hunger not satisfied by food.
This poem © Kevin Walker. Published August 2012.
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