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
right on, Ron
That poem’s gold! I especially like the titillating title.