Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?
- Earl Fowler
- Jun 6
- 2 min read
Building a dream they said. Dream of what. No matter. Follow along. I followed. All of us following. Hats backs shovels boots. Somebody ahead always shouting though the words lost in the iron noise. Good enough. Onward, march.
Earth first. Turning it over. Again. Again. Clay in the nails. Rain in the collar. Then guns. Then earth again. Hard to say which came first now. A man bends where told. Lifts. Carries. Waits. Sleeps if able.
Railroad yes.
Something like a railroad.
Long black line through nothing. Hammer in the hand. Hand in the glove. Glove gone stiff with sweat. Strike. Lift. Strike. Sparks at dusk. Smell of creosote. Men talking at night from their bunks not to say anything only to hear a voice still living in the dark. We made it run they said. Race against time. Time won nonetheless.
Done then.
Tower afterward perhaps. Or before. High up anyway. Wind enough to rock the bones. Rivets tossed glowing through the air hand to hand. Tiny people below. Tiny me above. Looking down no bottom to it. Looking up no top. Brick. Lime. Rivet. Brick. Lime. Rivet. Then one day no more rivets. No more bricks. Tower standing by itself. We gone.
Peace and glory ahead.
Ahead where.
Onward, march.
Khaki then. Yes. Khaki and drums. Drum against the belly. Rat-a-tat-tat. Fool noise. Boys laughing too loud. Mud swallowing boots one by one. Half a million boots. Maybe more. Faces whitening in the flashes. Mouths open. Nothing heard. Somebody called me Al. Everybody did. Al fetch this. Al duck. Al you bastard still alive. Strange now to think of a name sticking to a man so firmly once.
Back afterward.
After what.
Breadline certainly. Cold certainly. Hands in pockets feeling the holes widen. Men swaying a little where they stand not from drink no money for that from tiredness. Towers still there. Trains still running. Windows lit high above. Look up. Neck hurting. Thinking I was in that once. Up there. Somebody like me anyway.
Al they said.
Days pass. If days. Hard to tell indoors. The room smells of damp socks and old newspapers. Pipes knocking in the walls. Somebody coughing forever in the next room. Never stopping. I lie there seeing rails stretching away into blackness. Or trenches. Or breadlines. All one line in the end.
Waiting. For what. Two bits too much to hope for. A dime then.
Brother.
Buddy.
Pal.
Al.
Words worn smooth like old coins from handling. Nothing underneath them now.
Can you.
No matter.
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