Above the world,
Eleven workers dine:
Altitude on rye.
They sit as if riveted
Sipping insulated sustenance
From tin thermoses,
Waiting.
The lunch whistle
Beckons them back to peril;
Every man makes a wish
For boots with magnet soles.
When they return to earth,
Their caps and overalls exhale
The gusted scent
Of this progressive city’s zeal.