Monday
morning crisp air cuts up
from
the lake.
With
my ever-stained jeans
I
kick the start on Putt
my
scooter.
We
scoot 5 miles down the old road
as
Putt’s oily gas fumes
blend
with early morning gravel and
overgrown
dewy wild grass drainage ditches.
On
the edge between towns
passing
the roadside motels
to
the paint and sandblast shop
at
the cross-roads of a half dozen or so
construction
sub-contractors.
Punch
the time
clock
card marks
my
pay and my life
for
the next 8 1/2 hours.
The
shop foreman’s
cheap
cologne mixes with
cool
freshly sand-blasted
iron
as I wipe each piece
tack
cloth clean
until
they permeate dreams.
An eternity
croons backwards
Keats’
nightingale song.
My
mind aches and I wish
I was
sleeping.
Mime
snap an
imaginary
twig to signal
10
minutes to sit
and
forget how many more minutes left today.
You’re
not making any
more
money than
how
you figured out yesterday
but
you calculate again.
Payday
Wednesday we
cash
our checks at
the
bar with beer burger and fries lunch.
Five
o’clock Friday
see
ya'll
in
the funny papers.
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