An Honest Job
By John Herlihy

There was nothing to do but just get the job done,
Raw hands in dirty water pretending to have fun.
Tons of hot water poured steaming into gaping tubs,
The soiled clothing lying in a heap awaiting their rubs.
The fire scorches the water to burn away the filth;
Bitter soap melts hard grease from the table’s spilth.

The slick soap eats away the buttery and oily stains;
The steamy water washed my face of soiled remains.
With weathered washboard and cake of Octagon soap,
I washed the rack of dirty clothes, and left them to soak.
The water bubbled and churned up into frothy foam;
I stirred, then dumped out the laundry like smoking loam.

The soapy water steamed up hot into my damp face,
As I scrubbed the dirt down to the last piece of lace.
Much as you hate it, the work makes you feel like new,
Your face in smoke and steam still dripping with dew.
Your hands reddish raw from the steaming hot water;
Your fingers slick and limp like a lamb to slaughter.

You lift the laundry pieces from the water one by one,
To hang on the clothesline blowing in the wind and sun.
Socks and undies, pillow cases and sheets in the breeze,
The shirts and coveralls hang down in attitudes of ease.
All the world’s population seems ready to spring to life,
The drying laundry, crisp and fresh, marching in sunlight.

There is something to be said for the likes of an honest job,
Bringing joy to the heart of work done that no one can rob.