Drum

    Leo's Tool & Die， 1950

    In the early morning before the shop

    opens， men standing out in the yard

    on pine planks over the umber mud.

    The oil drum， squat， brooding， brimmed

    with metal scraps， three-armed crosses，

    silver shavings whitened with milky oil，

    drill bits bitten off. The light diamonds

    last night's rain； inside a buzzer purrs.

    The overhead door stammers upward

    to reveal the scene of our day.

    We sit

    for lunch on crates before the open door.

    Bobeck， the boss's nephew， squats to hug

    the overflowing drum， gasps and lifts. Rain

    comes down in sheets staining his gun-metal

    covert suit. A stake truck sloshes off

    as the sun returns through a low sky.

    By four the office help has driven off. We

    sweep， wash up， punch out， collect outside

    for a final smoke. The great door crashes

    down at last.

    In the darkness the scents

    of mint， apples， asters. In the darkness

    this could be a Carthaginian outpost sent

    to guard the waters of the West， those mounds

    could be elephants at rest， the acrid half light

    the haze of stars striking armor if stars were out.

    On the galvanized tin roof the tunes of sudden rain.

    The slow light of Friday morning in Michigan，

    the one we waited for， shows seven hills

    of scraped earth topped with crab grass，

    weeds， a black oil drum empty， glistening

    at the exact center of the modern world.