This is how it was
cold  wet
muscles tense
moving fast
pulling the metal
rods down
that bind the towers
of stacked steel boxes
to the ship’s deck
Watching your feet
in the narrow aisles
One eye up for falling rods
Jumping to the slam of the crane’s rack
scooping cargo to shore
Hardhat long gone
Gloves sagging from rain
rivers of sweat
and grease thick as butter
on the rusty threads of binders
that won’t budge
The soft pads of your palms
bruising as you finally turn loose, spin
and drop the worn turnbuckles
where they lay
like dead bodies
in an open grave

—Kevin Castle, 56876, ILWU Local 19