Swing hoist!
Swing three hundred pounds
of galvanealed steel.
Swing as I drag you out
to the assembly line, and then back,
and out, and back, and out.
A pendulum with a period of a buck-twenty,
Swinging 300 times a day.
Swing while the guy up the line
installs hood hinges,
his radio blaring -
De La Soul and Curtis Mayfield,
He nods to me when we're up that way.
Music makes the night go faster.
Down the line, another radio blasts,
the repairman jamming,
to a classic rock station.
Music can also make the night longer.
Swing as I steal a moment
in between trucks,
(but not every truck)
to read;
a paragraph,
a sentence,
a line,
as much as I can take.
These silent moments shared with
whoever I can lay my hands on
(from Aristotle to Howard Zinn)
provide me with perspective and comfort
and ward off the monotony.
Swing in the hands of my relief man,
while I go on break.
I'll be down where my friends work,
for fifteen minutes of argument -
Socialism, Anarchism, Christianity
we each make similar points in languages
the others do not understand.
As we speak sublime obscenities.
Swing as you and I spend most of our time together,
loading box after box.
Now a six and a half footer,
Now an eight,
Another six point five,
And every fourth box a dually.
Swing and glide for me
(make it look effortless).
Everyone else hates you as too hard,
too painful, too dangerous,
but you and I know each other.
And though I bitch and moan
about the job and the hours I put in,
secretly I'm proud of our understanding,
of our industrial dancing.
So swing,
hoist
Swing.
