Drum

    Leo's Tool & Die， 1950

    In the early morning before the shop

    opens， men standing¹ out in the yard

    on pine planks² over the umber mud.

    The oil drum， squat³， brooding， brimmed

    with metal scraps⁴， three-armed crosses，

    silver shavings whitened with milky⁵ oil，

    drill bits bitten off. The light diamonds

    last night's rain； inside a buzzer⁶ purrs.

    The overhead door stammers⁷ upward

    to reveal the scene of our day.

    We sit

    for lunch on crates⁸ before the open door.

    Bobeck， the boss's nephew， squats⁹ to hug

    the overflowing¹⁰ drum， gasps¹¹ and lifts. Rain

    comes down in sheets staining his gun-metal

    covert¹² suit. A stake truck sloshes off

    as the sun returns through a low sky.

    By four the office help has driven off. We

    sweep， wash up， punch out， collect outside

    for a final smoke. The great door crashes

    down at last.

    In the darkness the scents¹³

    of mint， apples， asters. In the darkness

    this could be a Carthaginian outpost sent

    to guard the waters of the West， those mounds¹⁴

    could be elephants at rest， the acrid¹⁵ half light

    the haze¹⁶ of stars striking armor if stars were out.

    On the galvanized tin roof the tunes¹⁷ of sudden rain.

    The slow light of Friday morning in Michigan，

    the one we waited for， shows seven hills

    of scraped earth topped with crab¹⁸ grass，

    weeds， a black oil drum empty， glistening¹⁹

    at the exact center of the modern world.