The Blue Moon Review

Open Beer Stores, Running Busses, Marigolds
Small Miracles on Police Station Lawns
by Aaron Anstett

Who thought the day went on, sewn of whole cloth,
over working hours, beyond the factory floor,
past hints the break room windows and glimpses
the twin bay doors allowed, when you were suffered
a cigarette, or the conveyor belt emptied, briefly moving
nothing but itself, or machinery broke, and looking up
you saw out:  sunlight, beguiling, and the jerky color film
called Leaves the trees broadcast, and a frame of sky
with birds enough its entirety went assumed?

Who'd guess it so extensive, so uncannily blue,
and the world full of such expensive views,
when you've up and walked off, still on the clock,
right under the noses of your new former bosses,
not even trotting the old saw "I quit" out,
or invoking some commotion of screaming and thrown parts,
but turned and took a certain number of steps
across the concrete, on through the gravel lot,
almost disappointed no one cried, "Come back"?

Absentee, no one's employee, fodder for gossip,
last check owed you, cause of production lull
as someone's made to man your position, who knew
it got this good, before acquiescing to want ads
and dialing phone numbers for addresses
you'll drag your whole and only body to, your hands,
minutes ago lifting 7200 parts per hour, hieing you home,
steering like victory, and later, drinking liquor on principle,
being able to lie down and rest at will, whether you do or no?