Atlases
We are the graveyard shifters The takers of orders, The shelvers of cans They who live by the work of their hands
We, the visibly invisible, The face at the door Often passed by Like so many before
Though we be transparent It is not as it seems To each minimum wage Clasps a lifetime of dreams
Though the pursuit of happiness It is not as it seems We the Atlases shoulder a world in dreams
-a haunted typewriter (C. I. Smith)
















