Poems for Sunday, September 16, 2012

The Midwest Circa Simpler Times

In the 1950s, my great uncle usually slept in his van
parked in the lot of the mattress factory where he worked
along the blue-collar edges of Kansas City. His family
lived too far away for him to commute every day. In the
factory, god only knows. Tiny flecks of insulation always
hovering in the air, creeping up workers' nostrils and into
blackened lungs. Sticking to the crevices of skin that
weren't inhibited by plastic or canvas. Chemicals slowly
dining on their organs throughout the Truman and
Eisenhower administrations. When his day-eating shifts
ended, he curled his gloves into his back pocket and
retired outside to his van. Lucky Strikes balanced on
the dash, cans of Coors Light crumpled in the passenger
seat. What he probably saw: smoke rising from concrete
stacks, dancing skyward. Rusty Union Pacific boxcars
smothered by their own shadows. Emptiness here
and there. When he finished his beer, he ate the sunset
and dreamt of the suburbs.


*     *     *


At the Pick-n-Pull

Two dollars to enter, hang a left
past the imports. Patiently parked
at the end of the row:

a white 2001 Ford F-150.

The model was inexact, but the
color and the parts would match
well enough.

The tools came out quickly.

Ripping, stripping, popping and
lifting. Prying and unbolting for
an easy outcome.

A picker approached us.

Pushing his pseudo-wheelbarrow:
"You guys need any help pulling
those parts?"

He would've charged us.

"No, thanks. Appreciate ya." He
rolled back towards the entrance
with metallic ambition.

After that, off came the fender.

Hauling it, I sliced the base of my
palm. Contemplated the chances of
getting tetanus.

Ah, fuck it. Gamble with blood.

The door came off fifteen minutes
later. It weighed more than I'd like
to recall.

Through muddy gravel, we left.

The parts cost $114. We sweated.
My hand stung like hell when I tried
to wash it with soap.

We snaked back towards I-435.

There are certain people who never
leave these junkyards. Their love is
measured in cylinders.

Their poetry hidden in truck beds.