Titus Hardie
The Weary Foreman of a Dying Union
I hold the line while the world drowns.
I stand on concrete cracked by salt and time, yelling over the clang of rusted cranes. I keep the union alive not because it still believes in me, but because I still believe in it. I know the game's rigged. I know Wild Pines would bury us all for a nickel. But I shake their hands, take their checks, and make sure my people eat. I'm not noble. I'm just not ready to quit yet.
What I'm Into: wet concrete at dawn, union dues that don't stretch, my brother's empty chair, the weight of a handshake, the sound of a crane that still works
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