There I stood,
Mesh hair-net wrapped tightly
around thick, dirty, blond hair
concealed under a red plastic hard hat.
And then, the
screeching of thousands of cans
racing down production lines
zooming around corners
behind the old cookers
clanging against steel framework
tainted brown, from fifty
plus years of existence.
The filth and dust rest heavy in my lungs.
And my hearing,
even with required ear plugs
has taken a beating, tolerating
fifty hours a week of industrial noise.
Boats dock randomly
at all odd hours, dumping tons
of freshly caught clams
into the shuckhouse,
where cleansing steam and vigorous machines
combine with chilly ocean air
to keep the turnover rate high
and the budget low.
Foreign languages, crossed eyes
and liquor-rich breath
keep me distanced from my co-workers.
Not seeing eye to eye,
I can't count the introductions
I've heard saying:
"My name is…
and I'm a recovering substance abuser."
Puddles and running water cover
the cement floor in the kitchen
where smoke pours from monstrous kettles
and maintenance men adjust
the howling pipes as rows of bottles
from warehouse pass overhead.
On really lucky days the shuckers
wipe off cans with colored rags
(a lucky day is one
in which there is work.)
Meanwhile, yellow forklifts
with flashing golden lights
race around steel rows
of shelved storage mounted
thirty feet in height.
So skilled are the drivers,
forward, backward, side to side,
up down
moving large wooden crates
and immense cardboard boxes
where they go and as they're told.
They smile toothlessly at their friends,
working overtime if the union allows.
The dingy walls and metallic
machinery are better homes
than many of them ever knew.
Work is welcome;
for the good ones, this is their career.
On second break, a football game
develops outside
but still within barbed wire fences
atop a parking lot of excreted shells.
It is interrupted by an outgoing truck
that attracts off-white seagulls,
who descend upon exposed meat
in the truck's bed.
And the seagulls make their catch
and then fly off
racing high into the night skies
over cat-tails surrounding
the murky bays, and then
scatter wildly above the plant
and dart through lights
of humble, Wildwood skyline;
to think:
only a tollbridge away.
Boots squish and crack shells
on their way back inside.
The security guard locks
the door behind them, while
gloves, goggles and hard-hats
are reattached and a man
with a tattooed anchor on
a scarred, muscular arm babbles
about approaching Viet Cong.
Cigarette smoke branches throughout
the breakroom and the microwave
wakes up those napping
on crumb-covered tables.
Not union, I'll go home
half past midnight and hang
my raunchy jeans and torn
flannel shirt on the line
and scrub my body with soap
and water for some time,
trying to erase the troublesome stench of clams. |
