I knew it was over when I saw the blood
I was leaving on Polly Ann’s lip
when I left her to step into the pocket
of dark the world hides between every good
morning and goodnight. At least
dying on the inside gave me a chance
for some theater, something to hold
and keep to myself until the cough wouldn’t stop
turning the shirts red. See, there’s no masking a gunshot
to the gut or a razor whistled through
a throat, but I could still punch
out my chest for a little while, shout
“You know I did!” when the vets tell the new boys
the story of how I broke a mountain
or broke a woman or broke my momma’s heart
when I told her this hammer was going to be the death of me.
Half the stories were never half true, but the only thing worse
than being a myth is being a myth
that pouts and won’t play along. But I can’t be a myth
when the rookies have hammers that ring louder than mine.
I can only say letting the youngbloods shine a little is good
fun so many times until we all know the fun is over.
You know the captain saw it; a buzzard
can smell dying meat from a mile away.
He offered me a chance to live
out the rest of my time off the line. Slapped me
on the shoulder and told me it would take 1,000 Chinamen
to replace me, but we had to make sure they didn’t
replace us all sooner or later. Spit
blood into a towel until I begin to lose
the cracks in my hands and the world begins to lose my name.
What choice was that? Silica lynching my lungs
and my eyes burning every time
a stranger throws his thumb at me and says “That’s John Henry!”
with the same wonder in his eye I had for the first meal
left at my feet after a full day of cutting the earth.
One part of that last story is true. I was real
honest when I said I’d beat that drill or die
trying. Show me a champion that wants to lose
to dust. Show me a champion that wants to lose
to the boy he used to be. Show me a champion that wants to lose
to anything less than the hand of a cruel and insoluble god.