I cannot sit down in my room
unless I want to brave
the grind of sand into
the backs of my thighs.
I do nothing there but sleep,
search for a pair of clean socks
before my morning shift.
I even read in other places.
The guys in the old boys club
on their days off,
in the wee hours between shifts
in the kitchen and the storehouse.
Here summer in, out,
winter in, out.
They are not at the bars or clubs tonight
or any night.
They are sinking on the lounge couches,
watching Harry Potter
with empty cans of Pabst on the table.
We are the few women here,
Sandy squished between John and James on the couch
flipping her hair, Marlee quiet,
legs crossed on the ground,
and me leaning in the door frame
looking on, thinking I should speak
and not knowing what to say.
Here we are wondering
if we are tough enough
to get by.