What work is.
by Philip Levine, the new US Poet Laureate
We stand in the rain in a long line
waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.
You know what work is—if you’re
old enough to read this you know what
work is, although you may not do it.
Forget you. This is about waiting,
shifting from one foot to another.
Feeling the light rain falling like mist
into your hair, blurring your vision
until you think you see your own brother
ahead of you, maybe ten places.
You rub your glasses with your fingers,
and of course it’s someone else’s brother,
narrower across the shoulders than
yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin
that does not hide the stubbornness,
the sad refusal to give in to
rain, to the hours of wasted waiting,
to the knowledge that somewhere ahead
a man is waiting who will say, “No,
we’re not hiring today,” for any
reason he wants. You love your brother,
now suddenly you can hardly stand
the love flooding you for your brother,
who’s not beside you or behind or
ahead because he’s home trying to
sleep off a miserable night shift
at Cadillac so he can get up
before noon to study his German.
Works eight hours a night so he can sing
Wagner, the opera you hate most,
the worst music ever invented.
How long has it been since you told him
you loved him, held his wide shoulders,
opened your eyes wide and said those words,
and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never
done something so simple, so obvious,
not because you’re too young or too dumb,
not because you’re jealous or even mean
or incapable of crying in
the presence of another man, no,
just because you don’t know what work is.
Fred Klonsky 
I saw he was named Poet Laureate. Now I must go check out his work. I really like this one.
Love it. Thanks for posting.
Reminds me of something by Gwendolyn Brooks.
I remember meeting Philip Levine in the fall of 1974 at a writing workshop while attending grad school. He was a guest poet at the University of Utah. He was quite blunt when speaking about student poetry. When he read my poem, he said: “This poem is Shit!” He then circled the last four lines of my 24-line attempt at writing poetry and said: “Here’s where your poem begins. Next.” (The last four lines were metaphoric and surprising).
I have always admired Levine’s narrative style: many poets have emulated his honesty of observation, his story telling through evocative and unexpected images, his deeply-felt experiences, his sensitivity to the precise meaning of words and to their sounds… I recommend reading some of his earlier works: “What Work Is,” “A Walk with Tom Jefferson,” “Sweet Will,” “The Simple Truth,” “One For the Rose.”
This poem is wonderful.