The Right To Grief

by Carl Sandburg

To Certain Poets About to Die

Take your fill of intimate remorse, perfumed sorrow,

Over the dead child of a millionaire,

And the pity of Death refusing any check on the bank

Which the millionaire might order his secretary to

     scratch off

And get cashed.

     Very well,

You for your grief and I for mine.

Let me have a sorrow my own if I want to.

I shall cry over the dead child of a stockyards hunky.

His job is sweeping blood off the floor.

He gets a dollar seventy cents a day when he works

And it’s many tubs of blood he shoves out with a broom

     day by day.

Now his three year old daughter

Is in a white coffin that cost him a week’s wages.

Every Saturday night he will pay the undertaker fifty

     cents till the debt is wiped out.

The hunky and his wife and the kids

Cry over the pinched face almost at peace in the white box.

They remember it was scrawny and ran up high doctor bills.

They are glad it is gone for the rest of the family now

     will have more to eat and wear.

Yet before the majesty of Death they cry around the coffin

And wipe their eyes with red bandanas and sob when

     the priest says, “God have mercy on us all.”

I have a right to feel my throat choke about this.

You take your grief and I mine—see?

To-morrow there is no funeral and the hunky goes back

     to his job sweeping blood off the floor at a dollar

     seventy cents a day.

All he does all day long is keep on shoving hog blood

     ahead of him with a broom.