Blood and Oil
The first summer in the screw machine shop
after I hired you to be the quality control supervisor
we worked out the plan for statistical process control,
you covering the inspectors
while I managed the department and ran interference
with the production supervisors.
We didn’t break or lunch together,
not officially anyway.
But you know we found our own kind of breaks
out on the concrete floor.
We were like welded parts installed aftermarket in a crappy car,
Commiserating on the oppression.
That time when the dick-head
supervisor from the Single Spindle Department
tried to get you fired,
and I went to bat for you in the front office.
Do you remember what old man Bowen said?
“He went out like a whipped dog, he did.”
The last day we worked together,
you presented me with my micrometer;
you had polished it and put it in a clean case
like it was a gold watch.
The following year, while I was with United Technologies
we could barely make time for lunch.
We choked down some Taco Bell
and talked about old man Bowen
as if it was a decade hence.
It doesn’t matter, as nothing
really changes, not at the core.
I should have hugged you then and declared you my blood brother in oil.
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