Rolling trucks for Uncle Sam,
In his kit are bread and ham.
Slipping over moon-lit dunes
Humming low the old men's tunes.
Every moment plays the game,
Like an iron in a flame.
Rolling over desert sands,
Steady there are dough-boy's hands.




AT DUSK


A low blue cloud lies stretched beyond the trees,
All quiet so. The chant of birds uplifts,
And through the evening dusk a tremor sifts,
The chill of night creeps close with turning keys,
And darkness soothes each child. The daylight flees,
Though many voices lend their artful gifts,
And mingle with the city's murmured rifts.
While twilight covers all with mysteries,
There is the roll of train or army truck;
A mother calls her three year old within.
The most of us preparing for the night;
Some go their way to labor for their luck,
And others toil that we may rest or spin.
God guards the whole until the morning light.