Pressman Owens
I remember,
stood next to
the file sorter,
hands stained
red blue yellow
from the Ryoobi machine.
He tapped the toe
of his tan boot
to the click clanging of conveyor
rollers and the beat
of 70’s rock.

At lunchtime talks,
his blue jeans and T-shirt
would conduct the current
of hope for his Kelly
getting into college,
and little Mike making varsity.
“Those kids are something else.”
He’d say between bites
of a ham and cheese hoagie.
“They got a ticket out.”

Before going back to work,
Owens smoked outside
on the receiving dock.
In the flickering flames of
late summer and the smell of
early September cook-outs,
he looked at the horizon.

To the foreman’s call,
time to punch in,
Owens stepped on his
smoke, jabbing the butt
into the cinders
with the heel of his
cracked boot.