The evening sky surrounds them with its cape,
of coral hues spreading into claret clouds;
This unforgettable sight lingers for awhile,
till blue-back skies overcome them like a shroud.
A factory whistle blows to show a change,
in toiling guardians of its precious property;
These workers carry lamps to the highest tier,
waiting for the distant dawn when they'll be free.
Night watch life is usually lonely and cold,
while sitting with their lanterns growing weary;
Opening heavy lunch pails packed with care,
always certain of the danger that's lurking near.
The quiet town sleeps below yet not unaware,
that someone is always looking out for them;
In coveralls that reek of oil and dusty brick,
protecting their precious livelihood from harm.
When dawn arises the men carefully climb,
down steel ladders bringing them to the ground;
Despite a small fire built to last a lengthy shift,
chilled and exhausted slipping home without a sound.
History shows our country was built on the backs,
of laborers who struggled intensely through the day;
But a night watch guard was someone special still,
that his steadfast sacrifice stood far above the fray.
I wrote this long ago, recalling how my mother's step-father worked the night shift at the Roebling factory, the family which built the Brooklyn Bridge, among others. He had little education but was steadfast in his purpose to guard the grounds and the surrounding neighborhood, and to keep his family clothed and fed in the early 1920's.