I run my finger down the map

tracing the Quinebaug River's blue-veined course

how it merges with the Thames

and flows into Long Island Sound

and in old pictures I see packet boats

sailing to New York City
 

I am working for the American Optical

so I can go to college in New York City
 

the hurricane swelled the Quinebaug

breaking her dams picking up three-deckers

in the Flats these lumber stacks

floating them away till the ribs of wood

cracked at the dynamo turbine

the water rushing to the sea
 

my job is to scrape the disaster off

picking up 12-foot unplaned old pine boards

hurling them through July

seeing sweat my arms my chest an earth

with rivers each aching muscle
 

the master of the lumberyard

called Popeye, Pacific marine, his eyes Hawaii

his tattooed arms made flowered wahinnies hula

doing the work of three men

he leaped from the ground to the cab of his truck

loving the wood, stacking it planing it
 

I could admire him stay and be like him

strong bold a lover satisfied

a drinker a good man of Southbridge
 

but the river runs by where I work

calling and calling.
 
 

by BILL TREMBLAY