Working Late by Don Winter

Slumped in a rusted folding chair,
he locks the chuck into place,
keeps count of finished pieces
on a junked chalkboard.

His burden is keeping awake,
even though the roof kicks with rain,
and the wind turns
on itself in the empty truck docks.
He remembers: last month a guy on six
fell asleep for a moment
and his hand became
a red stain on the greasy cement.

He keeps the heat off, drinks black coffee
but each piece he bends
to lift is heavier than the last.
He lugs each one to the soup of oil,
a dull light marking a field
where rain is filling in the well
of his throat.

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