SPRING IN THE SHOP: a poem I wrote long ago...

In the center of the shop
sporting a smile
stands the Adjustor.

He does not hear the stamping
the shrieking
the shattered fragments of sound;

the presses pumping in perfect cadence
the whirring of huge gears
or
the split-second squirts
of
hot liquid plastic spurting into stainless steel dies.
NO
the Adjustor can only see
the pretty packer's eyes.

She swiftly strokes and stacks
spinning lids
adroitly filling each warm box
and
When he turns for just a moment
She adjusts her locks.

Dave Stancliff
1978