Give credit to those who ruin everything
they touch, that we might know the beauty
of ruin. It’s where we are going.
The largest pile of rubble is our friend.
Hung-over, the birds go cockamamie
in the morning, chit and chatter their way
into the channels and sleepy hollows of the skull.
Soon I’ll be off to the plant again, where
robots sizzle and spark, missing every
coffee break. The laundromats hum toss and
rumble, and every paycheck’s a dollar short.
In college, all I wanted to study was literature
and art. “What are ya gonna do with that?”
the marketing majors asked. After years in the
factories I guess they had a point. They’re still
scheming for a living, and I’m still writing it out.
But under the scars of the heart remains an un-
tainted river. I’ll work my shift and drive ten miles,
so deep in thought I won’t remember the ride.
I’ll be star-blinded and bent-beamed, learner
of fence-posts and path-rocks, dreamer of moss,
stamina of iron. Steam is money, stars are time.