bulkheads

working in a shipyard

B

Take a long hot August day
down in south Alabama
in old Benders 
ship yard
you can stretch that day
into a sweltering dream
deep in the belly of an old cargo ship
they worked
slipping and sloshing 
in the inch of bunker oil
cutting bulkheads away
the fire watch was busy 
flashes of flame 
danced in the thick gray smoke
that drifted like storm clouds 
across the moon of the bare bulbs
it was one hundred and thirty degrees
soaking ringing wet 
sweat and grime glistened
the constant rumble
ship yard heart  beat
hypnotized and sanctified
this poor mans hell
bunker oil and fire
chain falls and dogs
thundering slabs of 
steel plate
cut away with torches
crashing down to lay
still, hissing in the oil
the next one in line
stood mutely
waiting
for them