by B. E. Stock
A man stands on a girder
Welding two pieces of metal
His head in a helmet, his face
Behind a protective mask.
Around him are trucks and cranes
Shouting men and piles of material
But the place he stands is rusty,
The whole structure has its feet
In the ocean, and whenever the train
Rumbles through he feels the tremor
Of the ground, and stops for a moment,
Craving a cigarette, a love song,
Something. Last night he dreamed
He stood on a thin lathe
Of metal, surrounded by thin
Lathes of metal, unconnected
With each other, woke in a sweat.
On break the men smoke
Sitting on site, not looking
At each other, hardly talking.
It is not their fault what the pols
Did, what greedy people did.
They share the grief in silence.
Copyright © 2013 by B. E. Stock.