the pocket secret blues

 

early morning on site
talking work with the crew
none of us with coffee enough to be human
yet
while a line of still-cold diesel engines begin clattering to life
cold all the way to their metal-heart sumps
already heaving away any sense of the quiet life
for another twelve hours

I stand
wearing my boss-heavy jacket
that still smells like all the big-job cigarettes
and I wish I could have just one cold-morning smoke
then I shake that thought away
because one means fifty
and fifty means hospital doors
and it feels too good to be here
being this kind of man
the kind my father would have nodded to in the pub
then I half-smile to myself
know I’m all bullshit
pretending to be one of the hard men
while in my pocket
is a stone she gave me last night
a small crystal she wants me to carry
and I don’t question why
it’s enough that it came from her
so even if it’s bad
it’s good
and the men talk
and I talk
small words
grunts
and shit and fuck
and get-it-done cunt
and we laugh as hard as those cold-start diesels
while I keep one hand in my pocket
so my fingers can touch the stone
thinking unthinkable things
like twelve hours never felt so long
or cold mornings so beautiful warm