Broad‑Backed City
City with grit under its fingernails,
you stand there like someone who knows
the job will outlast the daylight.
You laugh with your whole chest,
not because the world is kind,
but because the joke lands better
when you’re still upright.
I’ve walked your blocks at first light,
steam lifting from grates like a cook’s breath
before the shift begins.
I’ve heard the freight yards mutter
their iron vowels,
each wagon a stubborn syllable
in a language built by hands
that never asked permission.
You carry your bruises openly.
You don’t tidy them.
You don’t pretend they arrived by chance.
You wear them the way a tradesman
keeps old scars:
as proof that the work was real
and the pay rarely matched the effort.
And still—
in the middle of all that racket,
someone is sweeping a stoop,
someone is lifting a crate,
someone is calling to a neighbour
as though the day might yet
turn generous.
City of broad shoulders, yes—
but also broad backs,
broad hopes,
broad jokes told too loudly
in corner diners where the coffee
is always a little burnt
and always good enough.
I won’t flatter you.
You don’t need it.
You’ve built your own praise
out of brick dust
and stubborn moorings.
You stand there,
unapologetic,
alive in the way a place is alive
when people keep showing up
even when they’re tired.
And I stand with you,
not to bless,
not to scold,
but simply to say:
I see the work you carry,
and I’m here for the next shift.
.
-
Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: December 23rd, 2025 05:20
- Comment from author about the poem: A throwback of a poem written in response to Carl Sandburg’s “Chicago.”
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 25
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett, Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments9
A poem so full of the mundane, not to be construed criticism but praise. Here is life and its temporal burden, the sweat and pain that is taken by the working man as his pay. The dirt and dust of the day not thoroughly washed away taken to bed to awaken for another round. And rounds yes not a twelve round fight where the champion is declared and the end in sight but an endless fight with no champion declared and at best it might be a draw. This is a working mans poem and yet a metaphor as well as description of life itself and the endless strife met with undeterred stubbornness and accepted determination that it is what it is. A lovely poem my friend and a fave
Life in general and a certain view of Chicago in specific 🕊️🙏🏻
Your poem reflects on the character of a city, depicting it as a gritty, labor-intensive environment filled with people who are tough yet hopeful. It highlights the significance of everyday actions and interactions among its inhabitants, portraying a strong sense of communal identity and pride.
Indeed, thank you dear friendship
Those men built countries.
Indeed! What a generation builds says something about them.
Good write A.
Thanks O
arqios, this feels solid and earned. There’s weight in it, but not heaviness…more like steadiness. What struck me most is how you give the city a working body without romanticizing it. The labor, the scars, the persistence…none of it is polished, and that’s exactly why it rings true. The respect is quiet, not decorative. The poem stands upright the way it describes standing upright, and that integrity carries all the way through. Great job, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
It would be nice if all human gathering could be such. We can dream, otherwise 🕊️🙏🏻
Indeed. Dream we can! And yes, it would be nice!
Your work is truly inspiring. It is always a pleasure to read. I hope to learn from your work. How long have you been writing?
It’s getting to be a long hour now, beginning in the early 70s. Thank you dear Katie🕊️🙏🏻
"I see the work you carry." That’s the heart of it. This poem is an act of true seeing—unflinching, deeply respectful, and ultimately standing in solidarity. It honors the weariness without ever romanticizing it. A profound tribute.
Thank you so much MK. Truly appreciated 🕊️🙏🏻
You are Most Welcome🙏
Very good write Rik, I was walking those streets with you.
Andy
Cheers, Andy 🙏🏻🕊️
A Good Poem on the development of a City.
The Victorians knew how to Build things.
Merry Christmas.
Thanks, Kevin 🙏🏻🕊️ seems that’s now a long gone age. Would’ve been great to witness some real building going on!
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