Philip Levine

Blasting from Heaven

The little girl won’t eat her sandwich;
she lifts the bun and looks in, but the grey beef  
      coated with relish is always there.  
      Her mother says, “Do it for mother.”
Milk and relish and a hard bun that comes off  
      like a hat—a kid’s life is a cinch.
 
      And a mother’s life? “What can you do
with a man like that?” she asks the sleeping cook  
      and then the old Negro who won’t sit.  
      “He’s been out all night trying to get it.
I hope he gets it. What did he ever do
      but get it?” The Negro doesn’t look,
 
      though he looks like he’s been out all night
trying. Everyone’s been out all night trying.  
      Why else would we be drinking beer  
      at attention? If she were younger,
or if I were Prince Valiant, I would say that fate
      brought me here to quiet the crying,
 
      to sweeten the sandwich of the child,
to waken the cook, to stop the Negro from  
      bearing witness to the world. The dawn  
      still hasn’t come, and now we hear
the 8 o’clock whistles blasting from heaven,  
      and with no morning the day is sold.
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