Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The Steam-shovelMaxwell Bodenheim
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And a cupped hand with three crusted fingers.
The hand sank into earth and bulged with it:
Then swung aloft in sudden exaltation….
And the seamy, blotched man beside me said:
“I’ve stood here for two hours watching that steam-shovel—
Can’t seem to get enough of it.”
I saw the man in smirched blue
Jerking a rope at the precise moment
When the laden hand dipped over a freight-car—
His strained wet face, and his eyes pressed to specks.
I saw the knotted-up man at the engine,
His face dead and dented like old tin.
(Life to him is the opening and closing of levers,
And heavy sleep.)
In the little art-gallery of my mind,
Where portraits are weighed well before admitted….
The steam-shovel?—I had forgotten it.