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Willard Plumerson was dead before his time
but he was born again
in a burst of economic paranoia
heaven and white skin privilege
holding more promise
than his sliding stock quotations

he kept busy
scurrying to the foreman’s office
to tattle on other workers’ toilet activities
in between cutting train axles
on an engine lathe he called his own
for over forty years

Willard made few friends
with his boasts of blue chip stocks
had no friends for support
when they plummeted sometime in the ’60s
in a smoldering heap
like the trash tray’s steel fragments
in the belly of the lathe

he couldn’t quite find his class
not “working”
not “middle”
he floated somewhere on a republican cloud
with his white Jesus
and a micrometer that was always at least
three thousandths of an inch
away from accurate

he couldn’t quite place his heart
not “management”
not “union”
his only seat on a board
was the one behind the lathe
where he’d eat his lunch alone
or on special occasions
with a couple others just as scared as he

there they’d argue the body count
of angels dancing on the heads of pins
out of bibles on their blue-jeaned laps
where bankruptcy
plant closures
and quality circle lies
were never listed as realities of life

- by Sue Doro, from her book Blue Collar Goodbyes.

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