August 11, 2021Pipeline Surveyors
I resent the men who’ve come
to mark our land. On breaks they sit
inside their giant pickup trucks,
engines running so their leather seats
stay hot. Wolf down their Subway
double-meats like puppies vying
to grow biggest fastest. Not yet fully
men: mid-20s, college logos
on their too-clean baseball caps,
Gore-Tex shells un-ripped,
skin paler on the narrow bands
where rings should be. Oklahoma,
Mississippi, Louisiana—not a single
local license plate, and someone here
could use the work. I dislike
their easiness. Their casual bro-nods
when we pass each other on the road,
the way they play the open courts
at City Rec—not bad enough to pity,
not good enough to outright hate.
What kind of guys pound ribboned
stakes, paint arrows red and blue
across a property to show the butchers
where to cut, then just move on?
I’ve watched them take the measure
of our waitresses at Applebee’s.
It’s unforgivable, how much
they love their jobs.
from #72 – Summer 2021