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.