He turns the wheel thick as a wrist
with his finger.
compact with past authorities
that carried weight.
A spun core still attracts respect
or hate from men
while something else that’s snapped
or given up
plays to women —
makes him easy to be with.
He professes not to know how to please
turning the machine that turns ingots
shearing tinsel from silver necks and waists.
There are men he won’t drink with
won’t drink with him.
Others he is sworn by —
having augered out the shape of need
and filled it easily
because there’s less he wants.
A sliding door casts slabs of sunlight.
In a corner the machine squats
on its electric hum.
He lifts the warm peeled metal
and tells us how he got it cheap
far from here
because it killed a man —
a price worth shipping
He works it hard as he works himself
milling an accurate dross
of bright coiled razors.
© Caroline Caddy