Barbara Presnell's most recent book is called Piece Work. She writes about low-wage workers, about repetition and monotony. It has to be a brave poet who tackles a subject like manual labor, unfashionable and seemingly unpromising. And any 21st century American willing and able to write about class barriers seems almost like a miracle.
Velma and Bud On First Break at the Mill
Velma pops the ring of a Dr. Pepper,
lights up. There goes Bud on his high horse
again, how his daughter graduated high school
in May, is smart enough for business school,
wants to be a secretary. He says "secretary"
like it's "Doctor" or "President of the United States."
He's barely tall enough to reach her chin,
hair gray as wild rabbits, squat little arms.
She squashes her menthol light in the ash tray,
says, "Bud, you talk big for a little man,"
laughs and coughs at the same time. "I know
exactly where mine's going. Nowhere,
same as me." She knows he won't get mad.
Ten years he's worked the same machine,
and not one time complained. She knows
he gardens on the lot beside his doublewide.
Corn, tomatoes, beans. His wife works nights
at the nursing home, changing diapers, giving baths.
Some days she comes home crying, another one gone,
and another. Why he won't work first shift,
he says, so he can be home when she gets off.
Velma tilts back in the plastic chair. Bud leans in,
eyes serious as bullets, says, "You wait and see
what happens." She twirls her finger around
her ear to say you're crazy, twists the tab
off the can, spins it on the table till it falls.