When they ask what I want for a gift day,
I could tell my grandchildren, and my own,
get me a sander, planer, saw, or ball ping
or a set of socket wrenches or, hey, even
When I was first married I worked full-time
in a factory,
learning how to operate machines: grinders,
what a misfortune—all I could do with any
was to clean off precision parts in Varsol,
took all the hairs off my hands. First time
up debris under machines, as all apprentices
I grabbed the steel shavings with my hands,
and my blood dripped like leaking faucets.
When I came
home nights, my fingers, lumpy and cut,
if not bruised, at least battered around––
sheepishly at my beloved bride who, not
said, You want a beer or you want to eat,
I said, OK.
Ronald Moran‘s latest collection of poems (13 in all) was just published by Clemson University Press under the title Eye of the World. He’s got a handful of nice awards and, with his 400+ poems, he’s been in a lot of journals.