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,
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.