The summer before college
I worked United Ring and Seal
nine hours a day, six days a week
on my feet fitting airplane
piston ring after airplane
piston ring into a rotor,
then lowering the lever
that lowered the blade that shaved
exactly however many millimeters
the military needed shaved
from the inside edge
to ensure smooth flying.
I sang every song I knew
and survived break to break
half grinding, half dancing,
caught up in the dull service
and rote worship
of some foreign purpose.
Punched in and out of time,
I skimmed by on cigarettes
outside on a bench leaning back
against the building,
the brick wall’s thick hum
massaging my lucky shoulders,
sun resting its warm hand on my face.
And I thought about my friends
with lower lottery numbers than mine,
rifles raised over their wide-eyed heads,
mouths closed tight, glancing
side to side, advancing,
up to their armpits in Vietnam,
and I thought about the Vietnamese
leaning back like me
against machine shops
they didn’t own either,
savoring their own small breaks,
while not only the walls behind them
but the clouds above were humming,
humming and dark with planes.

This poem first appeared in the Paterson Literary Review.
Used with the author's permission.