Rain-slicked reflections of
the sun's last offerings
disperse within the por-
ous asphalt, inducing

a faint chorus of tire-
spun splashes fading-in
and out behind impa-
tient honks, like waves against

a cargo ship announc-
ing itself to the docks,
"I have arrived! I have
arrived!" The workers, their

jackets waxing iri-
descent limes and oranges,
wave in the freight, crane up
the containers and shout

down the lines through the bay
mist inscribed by currents
of blustering winds, top-
lit by a swarm of head-

lamps, crane lights and high beams
careening through the in-
dustrial din of space,
ensuring no foot fal-

ters and no hand misses
a hold, and the cargo
slowly, but surely, moves
on toward its final des-

tination, and like great
migrations of butter-
flies, birds and whales, that place
is always home, sweet home.