Each stair she climbs is a latticework of steel
with a view to the dock and water below. As she pulls
herself up the ladders and steps, the sounds of semis
and strads charging to life are farther and farther away.
The grumble of gears changing, the smell of diesel fumes
and the blue clouds that spew forth don’t reach her.
More and more distant is the lunchroom where men slap
their work slips on the tables for the bosses and tilt
their Styrofoam cups full of bitter coffee. She can’t hear
their laughs, their hollers, their lewd asides, or the thud
of steel toes against the floors that lead out the door.
She can’t see the hoodies pulled tight over heads bowed
to the wind, the hands shoved into greasy gloves,
the devastating orange of safety vests. Here, now,
at the top of this crane where she pulls the air
into her lungs, she is alone, the growling machines
and the men who drive them, scattered toys beneath her.
