They shuffle their feet outside the Labour Ready place,
insulated and tattered plaid work coats, to keep them warm.
The smoke from their cigarettes curls up into their faces,
Their heavy boots and hardhats will keep them from harm.

They sound wise in the cold, as the six AM hour begins to give shape,
to their words, their breath that smells of last nights' alcohol and now, tobacco.
They need the job, they want the job more, it really is just an escape,
Sleeping on the good graces, couches and floors of others, hiding from who they owe.

Life is about choices, not judgment calls or a bunch guilt-ridden thought,
Most of us are where we are, because, we think we did good, even all right.
These guys here, in Whalley, struggles with doubt which their actions have wrought,
How can they end the day, without having said to someone, anyone, good night?