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.

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