The bricks blush red and solid in the heat of midday.
He is proud of his handiwork, this man
in navy coveralls who spends his life
building walls. He is strong and careful.

It is a rhythm he falls into like a drunkard
into his bottle, comfortable:
spread perfectly even layers of mortar,
thick and level as a well- iced cake,

place the bricks, interlocking like friends, maybe
like lovers, he doesn't know, this average
joe- he knows only the red
and the white and the rhythm,

this bruise-thumbed man with the red face
and china-chip rheumy eyes, he hums
the confident hum of one who knows what he is doing-

and he does not wonder about those who will live
and pound their fists and die behind the walls
of the building he climbs a step higher to finish.

His dusty radio crackles and blares with empty love
songs, his mind is a well-built blushing wall, he is safe.