Like dinosaurs,the cranes are dead
bones of vacancies for silent shipyards
Their silhouettes remain as carrion birds
for signatures in clotted blood,
for politics and salaries
that’s always lower somewhere else.
The workers’ overalls still seek their host,
empty shells they’re stained with oil
they wait in vain in empty locker rooms,
the fabric wait to stretch for muscles once again.
The welders used to work with steel,
creating hulls to fill our thirst for oil,
for roads and dust, for must, for growth.
‘I used to build the ships’, he says
His voice, a hiding vertebrate,
a stranded jellyfish, the slither of a worm.
‘I used to spend my paycheck well’
tobacco-angst and blood-shot eyes.
‘I used to drink heroic beer’
He sighs, and rubs his cheek, unshaven sentences:
‘Before the harbor died, we used to live’
Today Fireblossom wants us to write a poem with a title “Pictures of _____” at toads. This poem is about all the harbors that have gone dead. The town I grew up in, Gothenburg, had the largest shipyards in the world, they are all gone today, but for decades the cranes stood there as skeletons from the past.
June 18, 2015