Billy

He said his name was Billy,
he worked in the same spot
in this place
the same spot he said
for eighteen years,
when he dropped out

He was thirty-six then,
so long ago that was
so many years yet to work,
a life caught in his rut

He pulled the hot bread pans
barehanded
Out of the oven, sent then down
down the conveyor belt,
to the cooling tower,
the cutter.

Calloused hands,
impervious to the heat
air/ lungs full of yeast, of flour
of despair, people
the other voices caught
in the routine,
the numbing sameness
of the bread factory


May 29, 2007 12:06am

All of my poems are copyrighted by Raymond A. Foss, 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012. All rights reserved. Contact me at Ray Foss for usage. See all 19,400+ of my poems at http://www.raymondafoss.blogspot.com Poetry Where You Live.