The Docks

After the arms could no longer paddlethick sweaty soups of mistthrown up by screaming leather mitts,heavy bag grunts and the speed bag shufflethat looked like water-logged remainsof a crime victim bobbing back and forth,back and forth in a wild wicked sea,it was time to work the legs. Outside

the curb crumbled into morecrumbled concrete all the wayfrom Clinton Drive to wooden dockswhere cargo was loaded and unloaded in sacks,like us, one hundred pounds at a time,by sweaty wet black men and brown menwho were boxers once,and full of dreams, too.

We pumped our legs like fists, fastflexing muscles that were barely strong enoughto carry a flyweight. We foughteach other with feet, feeling our waythrough potholes and slapping at puddles,trying to outrun the cracks creaking pastsilos and metal-framed warehouseswheezing in the ship-channel mistbecause everyone was out of breath,and everything. We pumped

with all that was left of our arms,racing each other and those putrid acidsgrowing in our veins that could freezelimbs solid if we didn't pace ourselves.We pushed harder than we should havebecause this was our field of dreams;the crowd of longshoremen cheeringour daily return like ritual

as if we were ancient warriors returning from battle:a cotton-striped work hat thrown up like a wreath;fists pumped high by another man who beta round of beers on the skinny dark one in front;hollers and whistles and hoorahs like you seein the Olympics on TV. We were champions,their champions,

and they cheered barrel-chested roarswith flexed arm muscles cracking into road mapsor big bulging sea lane swellsto foreign ports that rows and rowsof ten-story cargo ships would loadand unload, one hundred pounds at a time,

the rainbow of foreign flags fluttering in ceremonyas we ran cracked crooked streets to the docksevery afternoon before the sun went down.