Читать книгу The Lease - Mathew Henderson - Страница 11

The rig is between the derrick and the tongs,

and the mouths still dry from last night’s whiskey

and this morning’s dirt. They trip like it’s all they know,

like tanned gears sweating beside each other.

This lasts forever, this rigging, this tripping.

You’re no part of it. You can only watch

as they throw tongs and catch string like conversation,

watch steel slip into earth sixty feet at a time.

Tilt your head to see the swab line buck and spray,

and feel everything as the oil turns your face brown.