The Corner of Broadway and Prospect

In the building trades
we die a hundred times
see a thousand murders
and a few dozen tasteful suicides
once a brother's had enough.

Each layoff is an ending.
The next job brings rebirth.
That check will come again
after another safety orientation
and the meaningless doling of stickers.

We're immortal
and building America
with our livers ironically dying.
We go home to wash off the road
and expectorate lies told on tax forms.

Maybe that's why
the real deal hits harder:
We're accustomed to respawning
in some godforsaken elsewhere
on a different contractor's payroll.
"See you on the next big one,"
we say in jest when two envelopes come.

What happens when that joke can't be made?
In a lion's share of confusion
those left will scratch their hard hats
as further proof and cursing
for a safely unspecified god.