|Text of Poem|| |
His hands seek each other under his overall bib,
Nobody worked so hard then and they had enough too,
We can’t raise crops like they did,
Mildly he presses his quarrel with the times
|First Line|| |
His hands seek each other under his overall bib
|Original Pub Location|
|Original Publication Date|| |
|Original Citation|| |
The Sun at Noon. Muscatine, Iowa: The Prairie Press, 1943. 12.
|Complete Poems|| |
|Word Count|| |
|Poetic Form|| |
|Bibliographic Notes|| |
Published in Collected as "The Young Old Timer" without the dash in "Old-Timer".
|Twitter Quote|| |
why is it that nothing is the same?