You’ll find them in towns with a bar and a steeple,
  down-to-earth humans, some of the nicest people.
They do the manual work and punch a clock,
  show respect for order and can really talk shop.

They make the parts and tend to our machines,
  and keep the world rolling behind the scenes.
They’ve no problem seeing eye to eye   
  while doing their jobs, trying to get by.

Load that airline luggage, make the guest beds,
  cook food to order, dispense those meds.
Milk cows each day, butcher our meat,
  plow that snow away, sweep my street.

This poem is one of gratitude

  for all of the cogs in the wheel.
If we had more people like them,
  perhaps this broken world would heal.