Sawmill Poem by nathan martin

all my life i have wanted to be a
papermill mechanic in minnosota.

i would write short stories on pieces
of sawdust as they flew through the air.

my grandfathers diligence would be for
all to see, my broken and bare knuckels
bleeding openly.

mumbling under my breath the holy scirptures
as i passed by vacant spaces.

the sunlight would reveal slight depressions
in a pool of diesel on the concrete floor.

and in between some clanking and cluttering
for a brief moment someone would turn thier
head and see the mercy seat at noon.

a motion of the hand would be given
and everyone would gather together
to sit on a couple of old bent metal folding
chairs in the breakroom.

only i would be left to stack a few ply sheets
in a far off corner, maybe saving one to
write the great american 21st century novel.