A reaction (a sonnet) to last summer....
Summer Job
Twelve hours on end, a moment’s all I know;
just one moment in the warehouse—twelve hours.
Off conveyors, boxes are stacked, then go
out to shipping, in tall, leaning towers.
I meet with machines. We merge and combine,
the sweat, the grease, coating each moving part.
Even at home, machines work on my mind,
the noise so loud, I never hear my heart.
No past, just muscles’ memories of toil;
no future, just the hush of a rumor
that says, “It’s hot enough for blood to boil”
—small talk, in the short breaks, with forced humor.
Then, frozen time boils and pours out a past;
I’m back in a world where moments move fast.