little men in yellow shirts, whistle while they work
they dig a hole, they prop a pole, and smile through the dirt.

like little bugs, the sun beats down on their new creation
but come the clouds, and raindrops loud
its a cincinnati summer

my little men, put on their coats
and work through all the thunder.
the clock strikes two, and i must move
from my bagel and nutella.

one last look, through my window fog
the rain is not dying.
i make a sigh, and turn my eye
to see a red umbrella.

and so it went, the noontime 'ffairs
of thursday past mid morning.