Small town, Small job folks, Factory folks.
The man enters
home, wears work on his breath. She dodges
broken glances with dinner and a peck.
Wild blackberry slices
each hand that reads
clocks stuffed with musty school switch
scars.
Noon fire whistle blares. Water tower
the only one who sees beyond its limits.
From morning till covers crease
all our clothes stink
of greased salt.
The potato chip factory wages time on us.
Rene Mullen, Blue Collar Review