Towering o’er the hunchbacked man,
steam driven arms thrust and clank
in a vault of toil, deafening, dank.
The ceiling shakes, a cable snakes, past creosoted beams.
Once tall and lean, now bent unclean of sweat and steam,
the old man sweeps.
A small dark room of bench and broom,
from where he sweeps to earn his keep,
is a place I still see in my sleep.
Long ago there was a crack, and a cable took as cables do
when cables snap, the shortest route from me to you.
Steel breaches flesh and bone.
Doctors mend what doctors can,
and though he’s bent, it’s left unspoken,
a lucky man is he, for he’s not altogether broken.
And the leaders of the company in all their generosity
show their binding loyalty, but nothing ever comes for free.
An offer made is accepted.
A wife, a child, and bills to pay,
and so beneath the grand machine,
he works to keep the basement clean.
Above his head, steam pressure makes the mighty head rig lunge.
Teeth of saw blades tear the air, and into timber plunge.
Slabs of hemlock feed the mill.
And sawdust falls between the cracks,
just as he has, to the floor below, to a life hollow.
A life bent and crooked hard to swallow.
Dirt blackened face and empty eyes, into the broom he leans.
I walked in green, just a teen, sent below the mill to clean,
when I came upon the hunchbacked man.
steam driven arms thrust and clank
in a vault of toil, deafening, dank.
The ceiling shakes, a cable snakes, past creosoted beams.
Once tall and lean, now bent unclean of sweat and steam,
the old man sweeps.
A small dark room of bench and broom,
from where he sweeps to earn his keep,
is a place I still see in my sleep.
Long ago there was a crack, and a cable took as cables do
when cables snap, the shortest route from me to you.
Steel breaches flesh and bone.
Doctors mend what doctors can,
and though he’s bent, it’s left unspoken,
a lucky man is he, for he’s not altogether broken.
And the leaders of the company in all their generosity
show their binding loyalty, but nothing ever comes for free.
An offer made is accepted.
A wife, a child, and bills to pay,
and so beneath the grand machine,
he works to keep the basement clean.
Above his head, steam pressure makes the mighty head rig lunge.
Teeth of saw blades tear the air, and into timber plunge.
Slabs of hemlock feed the mill.
And sawdust falls between the cracks,
just as he has, to the floor below, to a life hollow.
A life bent and crooked hard to swallow.
Dirt blackened face and empty eyes, into the broom he leans.
I walked in green, just a teen, sent below the mill to clean,
when I came upon the hunchbacked man.
RLJ - 2009
The story behind this poem took place in 1976 at the St. Regis Sawmill in Tacoma, Washington
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