Wheels In Motion Poem by John M. FitzGerald

Joe Smith takes a pickle jar and latex gloves
From under the kitchen sink, and sits at the workbench
In the tool shed outside his father’s house.
He dons the gloves, empties poison from six livestock collars
Into the pickle jar. He spoons the powder onto a scale
Until it indicates ten milligrams,
Then slides it into a plastic bag and zips it locked;
Repeats that process nine more times.

He puts the emptied collars, bags of powder, a funnel,
And the gloves into his lunch box and latches it shut.
He places the pickle jar with the leftover powder on a shelf,
Behind assorted cleaning fluids and a rusty can of turpentine.
Next morning, his shift starts at nine.
He gets off the bus at 6: 30, stops for coffee.
Says hi to Monique and pets Holly Blue, then crosses the street.
He is always the first one in to work.

He goes to the conveyor belt, where the half-liters are ready
To be filled for the shipment to L.A., sets his lunch box down,
Opens it, and stretches the gloves onto his hands.
He takes ten bottles from the conveyor,
Pulls a blue Sharpie from his plastic shirt pocket protector
And underlines the word “pure” on each.
The line is hardly noticeable, but he wants to leave his mark,
To recognize the bottle if he sees it.

He puts the funnel in each bottle, pulls open a zip lock bag
And pours its contents in; replaces the bottles randomly;
Puts everything back in the lunch box.
He’ll throw it off the bridge into the Narrows later.
When the shift starts, a man in a white lab coat flips a switch.
The bottles ride the conveyor to be filled and capped.
They’re placed on a pallet, shrink wrapped,
Fork lifted onto a truck and driven away.