Mornings always end the same, in a car,
on the way to work, done.
Then comes the time clock, the rolling glances to fellow workers.
And as I start the engine lathe,
mounting the metal chunks into the chuck,
I press eight oily hours away avoiding eye contact with Hank,
because one can only take fart jokes from 40 yr. olds for so long
before the whole show of cut-off sleeves and 80's pin-ups falls apart
under the drill bits of boredom and back-orders.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem