The Handbook (shadow entry)
by Lichen Throat
Left my friends, my home locale,
For a year on the Erie Canal.
Albany to Buffalo,
Summer heat and winter snow.
Watch the barges floating by—
Need a crewman? I’m your guy!
No handbook for this job,
Just the back of a hand.
I can’t cry; I can’t sob.
Nothing goes like I planned.
I am young, I am strong,
But they say I’m a fool.
Every task I do wrong
Earns a blow, hard and cruel.
Take this rope and tie it off.
Rinse and scrub the feeding trough.
Take this mop and swab the deck;
Clean off every stain and fleck.
Walk the towpath; whip the mule.
Eat your hardtack; slurp your gruel.
No handbook for this job,
Just the back of a hand.
I can’t cry; I can’t sob.
Nothing goes like I planned.
Morning light, sunset shade,
Dripping sweat, sunburned skin.
Roses bloom, lilacs fade.
Can I live like these men?
Low bridge! Everybody down!
Low bridge! Everybody down!
Church bells ring on Sunday morn;
Curse them as our barge floats past—
Objects of each others’ scorn.
Who was first, and who’ll be last?
Kneel before the deity
or make the dollar work for me?
No handbook for this job,
Just the back of a hand.
Call our crews uncouth mobs,
I’ll strike you where you stand.
Back and forth ’cross this land,
Once a boy, now a man.
Low bridge! Everybody down!
Low bridge! Everybody down!