A We Sack of Woe

Vintage Clapton echoing off metal

welding helmets lifted

for lunch. The white capped bay

framed by the delivery bay door,

waterfront warehouse whipped

by the same wind that stalls the gulls

over the dunes.

 

The work, set aside, smells of burn,

the air, a sea breeze inside three walls,

is grey as the sea that brought the ships to harbor.

The piping crew might be pawns, might be lions,

green card, citizen, paid by the piece

or by the hour, defined by the pace

and grimy comradery.

 

The world is off the clock now,

another thirty minutes, too tired

to talk, nothing left unsaid

since the election. Sandwiches, thermos, tortillas, a piece of fruit,

the brown bag lighter than some skin,

darker too.

 

The news was all about immigration raids,

so the station was switched to oldies,

the rock and roll of a previous revolt

background to silent chewing.

“We worked together,” is what someone might say,

 not a big deal, not

a political banner, just what we do.

Photo by Hans-Martens/iStock / Getty Images
Photo by Hans-Martens/iStock / Getty Images