Peter Kahn


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.


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