From first grey daylight to the rising sun are the milling hours.
The traction animals tread the sidewalks of the gin gang city,
Grinding yesterday’s grain into flour for day-old bread.
But what matter? Yesterday, tomorrow— a turn of the stone;
The measure of time is the dripping of sweat
In glazed eyes watching footstep after footstep
Grinding our coffee between the soles of our shoes
On the sidewalk grit.
And another yesterday is tomorrow,
And another tomorrow is yesterday
And a single drop of sweat puts us to bed.
Then out from twilight came the Palsied Man: just a drunk perhaps?
But oxen driving against the leather don’t tremble in their pranger stocks;
The miller’s choice of his beast was an odd one, as the steps
Looked painful clops. But yet, each somehow seemed lighter;
Perhaps a Pinocchio dangling from strings—
His puppeteer delighting in his darling
Brought to life by imagination suspended by silk
On a comic stage.
And another step across for today
And another today for a step across.
And the puppet theater is brought to life.
I felt myself become the cloudless grey as I watched him go.
Born a tragedy to amuse a divine creator’s boring reign;
A broken waltz of a man who need not have been so made.
But there he was: The Palsied Man on the concrete treadmill.
He drove at his chains but with each step set with purpose—
For always is the sunrise born to him.
I tread furrows but he is borne by the Lord
As we turn the stone.
And the Palsied Man is pitied by fools
And the palsied pitied by fools is man
And the single drop of sweat is brought to life.