Sawmill

all my life i have wanted to be a papermill mechanic in minnosota. i would write short stories on pieces of sawdust as they flew through the air. my grandfathers diligence would be for all to see, my broken and bare knuckels bleeding openly. mumbling under my breath the holy scirptures as i passed by vacant spaces. the sunlight would reveal depressions in a pool of diesel on the concrete floor. and for a few minutes between the spinning of the calloused blades and the tearing of skin and roots someone would turn thier head and see the mercy seat at noon. a motion of the hand would be given and all the norwegian sons would gather together to sit on a couple of bent metal folding chairs round a table in the breakroom. only i would be left to stack a few ply sheets in a far off corner maybe saving one to write the great american 21st century novel.