today's poem is from 8:97 - and it's another prose poem - and an appropriate one, as I have come down with one of those wonderful summer colds … well, it’s not 90+ degrees as described in the poem, (not complaining either ). actually it’s been a pleasant day, except for the cold. Back on night shift starting tomorrow ….
Week one in shipping is history. Actually a LOT more to learn than I realized, probably more than anyone who hasn’t done the job realizes. But I do think it will come eventually - but it will take time. Just a lot of little things, what rolls to double stack in what rail cars, the pattern to place rolls in a truck (all depending on size of trailer, and number of axels on the trailer) …. Little stuff that like.
And I got to call Vanguard again this morning … to reply to a letter from my rep. Nothing much, except the paperwork has finally arrived from Weyco, and should be processed and finalized by Oct. 1 - seems a long time to me, but I guess it’s the way the world works now days. At least I have a time frame - and I guess Vanguard will handle everything for the actual reallocation - at least that’s what I’ve been told. We shall see.
SUMMER COLD
i cough. another summer cold. 89 degrees three hours after sunset. the farmers are cutting mint in dusty fields tonight. & the sweet smell is enough to gag you. their harvesters are old & dirty, as the farmers themselves, working well past their prime.
neighbor tinkers with his 63 Ford, new cam shaft & headers. this son-of-a-bitch really screams. & it does. 11 p.m., bastard machine born in heat of teenage angst & middle age crisis. he rough idles it well past midnight - maybe he evens believe it is a fountain of youth. but i don't. last virgin he saw in it was 6 month old cat, on the way to the vet for spaying.
Niquil - & an hour later i am awake to a groggy moon, watching possum (mother & 3 youth) cross through the fresh cut mint, ugly & awkward, delighting in both. i wonder if god felt this way after rebirth & hallelujah parishioners quit filling his coffer with pristine $20 bills. i cough & go back to bed, hopeful of sleep.
the poetry and rambling thoughts of a working class poet
