The others laugh behind the foreman’s back.

The man has only a thumb on his right hand.

He lost the other four to an accident

with the machinery.

They call him Captain Hook,

though he has no hook,

merely a stump and a solitary thumb.

Marcial is my fellow countryman.

He laughs as loud as any of them.

And he can’t do a hard day’s work

with two hands.

Too much time talking baseball

with his compinches.

I don’t defend the foreman

though I know he would me.

After all, he’s shown me

the photograph of his family.

He too is Dominican.

Came here with empty pockets.

Now he does well.

Vacations at the shore.

Comfortable apartment in the city.

But then he looks at me,

and even Marcial,

feels too guilty to be proud.

What if I, a man, could get…

had got pregnant,

like poor Juanita? he says.

What if I had it too easy

like lazy boy Marcial?

He’s given muscle and sweat

and time – so many hours –

to make it work.

But it’s not all perfect, he says.

He has those missing fingers

just in case.