He read Sandburg poems heralding
blue-collar working folk, railroads,
stockyards and those of middle-east-
ern European descent picnicking along
the shore of Lake Michigan in Chicago.
He thinks about how manufacturing jobs
are almost a thing of the past, rail-
roads are converted to cycling paths
through the heartland and the stock-
yards are a distant memory in old folks’
minds, but there are still ethnic groups
picnicking along the shores of lakes
all over the country on holidays. He
wonders where they go to work on Monday
or Tuesday morning, if they go to work —
service jobs, fast food restaurants and
the hospitality industry cleaning other
peoples’ bed linens, wiping down showers
and sanitizing commodes? What are their
hopes for their children? The same as
Sandburg’s immigrants? Hope springs
eternal as the cliché goes or maybe it’s
that dreams die hard.