Member Poem

They rise before the sun, unseen
The silent army clothed in steam.
Steel-toed shoes on concrete floors,
Lunch in bags, behind locked doors.

They clean the streets we walk each day,
Repair the lines that give us play,
Stack the shelves, and lift the loads,
Patch the potholes in our roads.

The waitress dreams on aching feet,
Balancing grace and ends that meet.
The driver hums through morning rain,
His tires weaving through his strain.

The janitor, with greying hair,
Sweeps secrets no one knows are there.
He hums a hymn inside his head
And mops the halls where silence bled.

The highs?
A warm child’s hug at five.
A check that means the lights survive.
Laughter shared by factory gates
Moments small, but never fake.

The lows?
A tooth ignored, a fever feared.
A dream deferred, a shift re-geared.
A raise that floats but never lands.
A future held in calloused hands.

Yet still they come, day after day,
Their worth not shown in take-home pay.
With dignity, they hold their ground
The roots that keep this nation sound.

So tip your hat, and see them true,
Not by their job, but what they do.
The spine of cities, fields, and glass
They are the strength.
The working class.