In
busy season the cutters didn't go home.
Food
was brought in -- thick slices of bread,
Wheels
of cheese, apples, radishes,
Urns
of sugary tea with lemon but no milk.
When
the men slept for a few hours
They
stretched out on the work tables
Sharing
dreams, bright-colored but patched
With
rags held on by tiny, even stitches.
(What am I if not one of those dreams?)
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