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Where We Stand

 High on a scaffold, strapped with a harness and a torch.

My shoulder slouches as I light the torch.

The torch pops and hisses as it lights.

I’m tired, I wake up and think this is a bad dream.

To leave all I knew behind to be bound and oppressed.

To be broken by the system I was entrusted to.

The arc burns blue, as I weld the piping across the concourse.

No one cares about us, as it grows more evident.

No one knows the pain, I’m in as I pass out from the pain at the end of my day.

Not even my partner, I hide my feelings till, I’m about to break.

It’s a way of life up here in ole Boston.

The struggle is to hold my eyes open and stay awake.

No one knows that I’m broken inside.

No one knows that my hurt runs deeper than my shoulder.

In this place there’s no room for me, it’s a gig for the boys.

This isn’t my swan song or a happy jig.

I’d rather take a swig,

Walk away from it all and be at peace again.

This road is hard and is made unbearable by the boys.

There’s no trickle down if you’re me.

It’s a gritty rod that you’re welding and all I see is rust.

Rust filling my lungs and suffocating hope.

My only hope is in leaving my helmet on that scaffolding and walking away.

Because better tomorrows are all I wish for.


I wrote this poem for a dear friend because she experiences the life of a welder that faces discrimination for being a woman in a man's world. In Boston, it's a boys club and it doesn't matter if your daddy's a welder. If you don't have balls, you can't play in the boys club.

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