Dams and Rivers

My grandpa’s brother built the Hoover Dam.
They hung him from a hundred-foot-long rope
And dropped him in the empty chasm where he
Blew away the canyon walls with sticks
Of TNT.  They had him on the scaffold
When they poured the concrete in the form.
The wind moves fast along the Colorado,
Fast enough to sweep my grandpa’s brother
Off the scaffold into a drying sea
Of concrete.  My grandpa used to always say
That once they started pouring, they couldn’t stop
Or else there would be cracks in the dam wall.

The Hoover Dam is a miracle of modern man.
The Colorado River has spent millions of years
Carving out a path through the western
United States, but the concrete behemoth
That bears the name of the thirty-first president
Stops it in its tracks.  The Hoover Dam
Is an engineering masterpiece.  It rises
Seven hundred feet above the river
And at its base is wider than the length
Of two football fields.  If even the tiniest
Imperfection existed in the wall,
The persevering Colorado would wash
The mammoth canyon plug away to sea.

My grandpa had a drinking problem.  He passed
Away when I was in the second grade.
My father is a lazy drunk.  He weighs
Around three hundred pounds and lives alone
In a double-wide collecting disability.
I’ve been working for a couple years
At a little brickyard on the river.  My day
Consists of moving loads from kiln to dock.
Every morning they lay that weight on me,
And I feel every ounce till I’m in bed.
Every day’s the same, and it feels heavier
The older I get.  They say it only takes
A drop—then it’s over.  Doesn’t matter
If it’s been two years or twenty,
Nothing’s dry anymore.