The Switch in the Floor
Long evening rays filter
through dark ceiling haze
I can see a black bird sailing high
in the rafters, but can’t hear it chirp
from the booming of the draw bench.
Cables thick with stinking grease and slime
reel off with their giant hooks, promising
damage. Kneeling on the slick black floor
I unscrew the broken switch lid.
Fat bellied operators with their fingers hooked
in their pockets supervise.
One likens it to open-heart
surgery. I laugh. Let them think so.
I wire the switch, tell them to start the mill,
and walk away, tool belt slung over my
shoulder. It’s time for coffee.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.