by Ivan Hobson
Every family that lived in our court
had an American truck
with a union sticker on the back
and as a kid I admired them
the way I thought our soldiers
must have admired Patton
and Sherman tanks.
You once told me
that the Russians couldn’t take us,
not with towns like ours
full of iron, full of workers tempered
by the fires of foundries and mills.
It wasn’t the Russians that came;
it was the contract, the strike,
the rounds of layoffs that blistered
until your number was called.
I still remember you loading up
to leave for the last time,
the union sticker scraped off
with a putty knife,
the end of the white tarp draped
over your truck bed
flapping as you drove away.