Thank you for these tiny particles of ocean salt, pearl-necklace viruses, winged protozoans: for the infinite, intricate shapes of submicroscopic living things. For algae spores and fungus spores, bonded by vital mutual genetic cooperation, spreading their inseparable lives from equator to pole. My hand, my arm, make sweeping circles. Dust climbs the ladder of light. For this infernal, endless chore, for these eternal seeds of rain: Thank you. For dust.
Andrew Williams, bootblack, 1825
There ain’t nothing shameful about good, honest work.
It’s a proud man that comes home with a decent wage.
I keep my head down. I listen when rich folks talk.
The finer the leather, the wiser the financial sage.
One foot on my box, Mister Man stands tapping The News
on his knee, talking shop confidentially with a friend.
I wipe off the filth, then, with a clean rag, smooth
his boot with lampblack, beeswax, and lanolin.
I deal merchandise shipped in on the Erie Canal.
Buy low, sell high. Then buy land, for the right to vote.
(You massage through his boot; caress his toes, his heel: if you’re lucky, he’ll say what’s coming on tomorrow’s boat.)
Thanks to dropped tips, I’m a bootblack with his own place.
I may bow at their knees, shushing with the horsehair brush,
but I buff with spit on a rag to a mirrored face
aflame with pride, blazing like a burning bush.