Funk Finecast Factory. Columbus, Ohio. Fall, 1984.
Not the sooty sludge of snot
that blew from my nose each night
when I drilled equations into my head.
Not the smirking crooked-armed clock
stunning time like a thick truncheon,
clubbing each minute to sleep.
Not even “come to Jesus” coercions
resurrected each $3.35 an hour day
tattooing my ten minute breaks.
It was burly and bearded “Bear.”
The swastika etched on his left arm. Staring
with each drop and dig of the drill.
Return to Volume 6.4