Broad‑Backed City
City with grit under its fingernails,
you stand there like someone who knows
the job will outlast the daylight.
You laugh with your whole chest,
not because the world is kind,
but because the joke lands better
when you’re still upright.
I’ve walked your blocks at first light,
steam lifting from grates like a cook’s breath
before the shift begins.
I’ve heard the freight yards mutter
their iron vowels,
each wagon a stubborn syllable
in a language built by hands
that never asked permission.
You carry your bruises openly.
You don’t tidy them.
You don’t pretend they arrived by chance.
You wear them the way a tradesman
keeps old scars:
as proof that the work was real
and the pay rarely matched the effort.
And still—
in the middle of all that racket,
someone is sweeping a stoop,
someone is lifting a crate,
someone is calling to a neighbour
as though the day might yet
turn generous.
City of broad shoulders, yes—
but also broad backs,
broad hopes,
broad jokes told too loudly
in corner diners where the coffee
is always a little burnt
and always good enough.
I won’t flatter you.
You don’t need it.
You’ve built your own praise
out of brick dust
and stubborn moorings.
You stand there,
unapologetic,
alive in the way a place is alive
when people keep showing up
even when they’re tired.
And I stand with you,
not to bless,
not to scold,
but simply to say:
I see the work you carry,
and I’m here for the next shift.
.
