The fans are gone.
When the utility cart climbs the switchback ramp
to the sixth-level concourse,
there are low-wage workers here, hired for the day—
growling leaf blowers strapped to their backs—
middle-aged men
who know what it is to start again.

The blown dust stings my eyes,
furrows my nose as I circle
toward a line of dumpsters.
The air is thick with boiled hotdogs,
nachos, beer.

I’m the first to the corral with my load.
As I open the gate,
the tension pinches my thumb.

It bruises.
Days later, I bruise the nail again
when a clamp gives out in my hands.
They pair like a butterfly—
brown and blue.

A plastic clamp isn’t meant for abuse,
and I’ve torqued it past its limit,
straining to wrestle a bleacher into place.
Both its jaws break—
its resolve bursts at once,
its maw gaping at me, silent.

I sweep the mottled debris,
toss the springs,
the sheared nylon feet,
and stow its spine for the scrap pile.