Quit

Funk Finecast Factory. Columbus, Ohio. Fall, 1984.

Not the sooty sludge of snot
that blew from my nose each night
when I drilled math equations into my head.

Not the smirking crooked-armed clock
stunning time like a thick truncheon,
clubbing each minute to sleep.

Not even my boss and his “come to Jesus”
coercions resurrected each $3.35-an-hour
day tattooing my ten-minute breaks.

It was burly and bearded Bear. The swastika
etched on his left arm. Staring at me
with each drop and dig of the dull-headed drill.