| Carl Sandburg (1878–1967). Chicago Poems. 1916. |
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| 13. The Shovel Man |
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| ON the street | |
| Slung on his shoulder is a handle half way across, | |
| Tied in a big knot on the scoop of cast iron | |
| Are the overalls faded from sun and rain in the ditches; | |
| Spatter of dry clay sticking yellow on his left sleeve | 5 |
| And a flimsy shirt open at the throat, | |
| I know him for a shovel man, | |
| A dago working for a dollar six bits a day | |
| And a dark-eyed woman in the old country dreams of him for one of the world’s ready men with a pair of fresh lips and a kiss better than all the wild grapes that ever grew in Tuscany. | |
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