In a different time, in a different body,
In a different life, in a different city,
With different eyes, with different clothing,
With a different voice, with a different bearing,
I might have been a stevedore in some tropical
port of call,
Where I would work long hours in the sun
That beat as it burned in permanent noon,
Reflecting its gift of coins on the water
For harbor children who would dive there
Only to surface with the slime from the bottom
clutching a button.
Where is the gold that has turned to brass?
In some sea trunk in the tidal trough.
On board the captain glares through the porthole.
I think of him tonight when I buy my bottle
Along the docks where I ask my question
the hook in my hand.
TODAY IN SLATE
The Right Target
Why Obama’s airstrikes against ISIS may be more effective than people expect.
The One National Holiday Republicans Hope You Forget
It’s Legal for Obama to Bomb Syria Because He Says It Is
I Stand With Emma Watson on Women’s Rights
Even though I know I’m going to get flak for it.
Should You Recline Your Seat? Two Economists Weigh In.
It Is Very, Very Stupid to Compare Hope Solo to Ray Rice
Or, why it is very, very stupid to compare Hope Solo to Ray Rice.
In Defense of HR
Startups and small businesses shouldn’t skip over a human resources department.