Liquefied petroleum gas cylinders bite the forearm
when you lift wrong. My father counts inventory
with his back to me. We load in silence, hand on trolley,
protective gear, and up the delivery truck we go,
never mouthing words louder than is pressurized.
 
I feel man here, you know. Learn how to hold
without dropping, brace my body against impact.
Occasional chugs over road bumps—tanks rattling.
 
We arrive at the city limits and deliver to alleys too deep in. 
You sign papers and collect cash, I wipe my hands off. 
Mechanical labor on repeat, we share the weight: 
two men carrying what burns, learning not to let it explode.