Handlers Poem by Ernest Hilbert

We watch the hectic scene
Through aquarium glass
From our chilled leather seats
As if before a stage:

The baggage crew knocks
And tosses the black and blue
Bales of bulky luggage.
One absentmindedly

Kicks a folded stroller
Till it zips down a chute.
He howls a dirty joke
Over his big shoulder.

They hardly notice the weight.
They shift an endless freight
Of boxers, bras, and shoes,
Bright communion salvers

Of cosmetics, a locked
And confidential cargo
Of shampoo and compacts
Clamped stubbornly as clams.

Another flips a girl's toy case—
A pink plastic seashell—
Across a cloud canvas
From Constable. Such art!

It rides over its arc,
Across the fume-filled air,
Until it smacks and spins
Atop a growing pile.

It seems only objects—
Stiff rubber, plastic, steel—
Would survive out in
That blasted, roaring scene,

But handlers, in goggles,
Heavy gloves, and bright lime
Safety vests, shimmer
As they muscle the bags.

They thrive in the dire heat,
While we, clutching carry-ons,
Await our appalling departure
Onto overseen routes.