I loved him most
 when he came home from work,
 his fingers still curled from fitting pipe,
 his denim shirt ringed with sweat
 and smelling of salt, the drying weeds
 of the ocean. I would go to him where he sat
 on the edge of the bed, his forehead
 anointed with grease, his cracked hands
 jammed between his thighs, and unlace
 the steel-toed boots, stroke his ankles,
 his calves, the pads and bones of his feet.
 Then I'd open his clothes and take
 the whole day inside me -- the ship's
 gray sides, the miles of copper pipe,
 the voice of the first man clanging
 off the hull's silver ribs, spark of lead
 kissing metal, the clamp, the winch,
 the white fire of the torch, the whistle
 and the long drive home.