Forged

My brother wore bags over his boots to keep the grease & grime from his time at the steel mill off the carpet & steps he mounted, heaving each foot like a monster born of the grave -yard shift — stiff & awkward, his arms smeared w/dark matter, the lather of machine & industry bathing his clothes & face in a glaze of sweat & smoke, oil & the dirt of what’s been done before — the work of uncles & cousins who wore the same jumpsuit, goggles & gloves to grab hold of cold finished bars using their backs & shoulders to move the weight around w/the help of machines, the knobs to control the two-ton bundles held by a buckle above the heads of hard-hatted men that could snap & let loose the mass of all that metal meant to weld into a foundation, a beginning to build upon when it was his time to work, to clock in clean & leave feeling filthy no matter the shift or stiffness in the bones creaking like the wooden stairs he climbed