Hand Job

Hand Job

It’s my first day on the job
In a plant making hand trucks.
“You’ll be rubbing acid on new
Welds to seal them,” the foreman
Tells me. “Here’s some rubber
Gloves,” he says, tossing me a pair.
“You don’t want to get that shit
On your skin.” I pull them on
And feel the air on my fingers.
The tips of the gloves are
Worn away, and I wiggle
My fingers for his benefit.
“Sorry, dude, it’s all we got,”
He says, as I hand them back
And split, my middle finger
Raised high in salute.

–Ron Kolm


Poetry

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