by Pat A Physics
Interview in a meatlocker with trolley rails on the ceilings
makes my breath visible.Â We have frost bitten coughing fits
amid the quiet ribaldry of the tankerman as he rubs his eyes.
The sandbags, which have an unfortunate smell permeating their
pinkish vicinities, pooch out around the base of a white
dry-erase board containing swirling, slap-dash flow charts
and hasty calculations.Â The loading master has a giant coat on
with fluffy hair sticking out under his collared bald, tan head.
My self-confidence is unswerving as the PIC questions me.
I cut up easily and get them laughing.Â No one wants to work
at the dock.Â I can feel them analyzing my bulging eyes, veins,
the clammy sweat beads that cling to my upper lip and forehead,
the special privileges of this kind of work, the intricacies.