by Philip Andrew Kendall
The cold concrete shop rivetedMe to a corner.
But he swept like heat
Bringing warmth to machines.
By the blaring bell at eight
He was unrelated to time.
The morning paper had slipped
Into his coffee and golf balls
Were lost in a cave of bone.
He rubbed his hands on knobs and wheels,
Stood barefaced in a blur
Of dust or metal,
Then slipped behind doors,
Grinding fiberglass for hours.
Limping out golf-baggy,
Covered in a thick skin of itching dust,
He checked production like
The workers checked the clock.
The last bell popped all but us
Loose from the mold.
He might tuck himself
Into a jet wing on a blueprint
While I wait, thumbing
Through a Plastics World magazine,
Looking for girls.
Copyright © Philip A Kendall, All Rights Reserved.
This poem was written by Philip at the age of 16. He used to work with his dad at Paramount Plastics from the age of nine during summer vacations and sometimes on weekends.
