The ones who stand there in ungodly weather—the rain, the sleet, the snow
of postal delivery folk, yes, but also amid the godawful heat and fumes
of all manner of heavy machinery spitting dirt and gravel and sand
and Lord knows what else. But they stand there in their hard hats and
orange vests and heavy work boots with walkie talkies and stop signs
on long sticks that they swivel to the side that says SLOW when it is time
for us to move along. And my fella and I cannot resist waving at them
as we drive by, and sometimes they wave back, and I hope that they
are well paid for what must be a boring but dangerous and important job—
like firefighters, like police people, like waitresses in rundown diners,
the ones who call you “hon”—though I bet they’re not. And some are,
indeed, flag babes with long braids flowing from under their hard hats,
and some are, indeed, fine looking fellows with handsome beards,
and some are regular Janes and Joes, and we drive by, noticing,
grateful that it’s our turn to proceed, never blaming them for
the waiting, whether long or blessedly brief. Because good heavens,
what a service, what a calling, pausing traffic for the safety
of those working on the surfaces on which we drive, another
kind of angel, too, thankyouverymuch. Amen.