Mortality

I stand at my lever and pull
You sit at your handle and turn
He shovels the anthracite coal
And the fires that fuel it all burn

If I were not here to pull
My lever and you did not turn
Your handle would that end it all
Would the fires continue to burn?

Yes, for out in the hall
Are others awaiting their turn
To wind and shovel and pull
And tend to the fires that burn