Gavin Ritchie
The barge haulers, lean in worn and flapping layers,
dig into their work, trussed like huskies, filthy to the face
and in the backs of their hands, pulling down and on.
The barge they haul is an iridescent temple,
though its light dims.
Listen to the leather harnesses strain on meatless chests, and across
the hearts of moiling men in huts and basements everywhere.
Watch the boy in the middle of the hauler team. See how astonishment
whitens his cheek. His predicament is not yet sinking in, but his pink
protesting hands got under the strap. No one helps him out or in.