Warpage

For F.B. Gower

1

Knuckling eyes, coughing up the rip blade's dusty spew,

we have no clocks to watch, only our inner sense

of when to rest. We slow down knowing how

the noon whistle's shriek can frighten fingers from hands.

 

We break on over-turned crates out of the sun’s reach.

Surrounded by discarded prototypes, empty cartons, and the broken pieces of our mistakes, our throats are dry with the dust that swirls above our tools and jigs, our battered assembly tables.

 

We keep to ourselves, daydreams lost to calluses and paper-thin cuts that never heal. Our eyes cast through the space between us, our lips pressed together. No one talks. No one cares to add to the noise: the hiss of flaccid hose, the pop-grumble of the air compressor, the thrum of florescent fixtures.

 

2

Much of our work is touching:

quality determined by the feel of planes, curves, mitered angles, the hidden pieces. Now,

my finger tests the edge of a walnut tongue,

not trusting my eyes to catch chips, raised seams,

the excess glue.

 

There are rules to obey, prerequisites to be performed.

A craftsman understands the checks,

the bends and bows, warpage,

the wild grain-- everything that can ruin the fit-together.

 

(Gauge blocks replace gauge blocks. Even the weather mocks our tolerance.)

 

3

Before the quotas are checked and quality cleared, the whistle sounds again. I hold up my hand, ask for their patience while I crunch the numbers, but no one listens. Their time is up. One by one the punch the clock.

 

I leave a note for the boss:

Production off.

Error rate up.

Climate poor

No sense going on.

 

Walking home, I feel the light wane.

My eyes stretch at each passing car.

Reviews

[Glen Yumang Manese]

A day in the life of a carpenter... by the way this read in the words... working outside making what seems to be cabinets or furniture of sorts... the imagery in this is detailed... I only saw one area of concern:

Before the quotas are checked and quality cleared, the whistle sounds again. I hold up my hand, ask for their patience while I crunch the numbers, but no one listens. Their time is up. One by one the punch the clock.
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Before the quotas are checked and quality cleared, the whistle sounds again. I hold up my hand, ask for their patience while I crunch the numbers, but no one listens. Their time is up. One by one they punch the clock.