They pay us time and a half
and they don’t dare catch us
drinking: we don’t insist,
don’t pass a bottle, but each sips
a private pint, all sitting
in the narrow room with our backs
to each other, each facing
his work—router, stain tray,
buffing wheel, drill press—
and with that sweet taste echoing
in our bones, we watch our hands
make what they always made
—rosewood handles—but now
we smile in delighted surprise
and when Marchesi brings our envelopes
they record a full day’s work
though it’s still noon,
the processions are still in the streets,
the choirs, the loudspeakers
bellowing Hallelujah: and we change
into our finest clothes in the locker room,
admiring each other’s hatbrims, passing bottles
freely until all are empty, and at last
we separate in the brilliant street, each
in the direction of a different tolling bell.
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