Wednesday is but a confusion of letters

on my way to work
(I’m always on my way
            to work
             or from)
I realize it is Wednesday morning
the wee hours;     in twelve hours
we shall again stand upon our runway
slinging machined aluminum and steel
parts onto engines and engines and engines

so it’s the ever-famous humpday
but, no, we work Saturday this week
so what to call Wednesday?
but perhaps it remains the hump
day,    and we sad humps
must wait to day’s end (at 4 a.m.)
to know we’re on the down-hill run

slinging bolts and driving parts and
smearing grease, gloved hands grimed with oil
muscles aching and bones
and joints and shallow cuts stinging
yet somehow we’ll be singing
offkey unabashed as the clang and grind,
the pokeyoke whistle and part-cart song
drowns out our humanity and constant yawp . . .


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