The Foreman, 1968

by

Thomas Michael McDade

The Foreman just smiles
when guys joking around
call him, "Trigger."
Wounds in the war
bent his finger that way.
Wired like a puppet,
he’s able to handle
the graveyard shift
at Lebanon Knitting Mills
where noisy machines fail
to drown out
a college boy singing
and strumming a guitar
when he should be
sweeping the floor.
The Foreman says no
sweat to a bobbin
tender who can’t work
without her calico kitten
by her side just this once.
Joining his hands
he passes a knitter
yelling out Scripture.
He punches the time clock
for a turner who’s promised
to leave the Town Lounge
at "last call" on the dot.
He shows a nodding
spinner rolls of warm
fabric to use for a nap.
Some folks eye
the hairpin curve
of his finger and wonder
when the nickname
will finally fit.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at getting older
by: Chasity Haynes
from: Nevada City, CA, US

To visit all of Thomas Michael McDade's poems, click HERE

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