"The Journeyman"

Looking eastward - the sun rising
he put on his shoes and started walking;
his car parked along with the rest
like himself knowing this day would be a test.
Entering the plant he sees a line growing
on the clock, with the card at hand the time it is marking.
Talking and laughing as they walk,
the old timer his pace is slower as they talk.
Knowing nothing is gained in rushing time,
nothing will be added not even a dime.
What a beautiful day it is to be outside,
a shame that he must work all day inside.
Eight hours ten - twelve overtime,
time and a half just to fill in the time.

Looking at the machine so big - so quiet
turning it on, it gives a whir anticipating today's diet.
Gears and lights it started in motion
it would be a long day in this commotion
to care for this aging wreck
with grime and oil on it's deck.
A sinking feeling he should have stayed home and rested,
to battle this machine sometime he knows he is being tested.
Warming up he hears a familiar ping,
one day he will take this machine apart to find that thing.
An aging wreck and an aging man tentatively working together;
no one seems to notice when work starts to gather,
an old friend accepted with all the quirks
his work on it he never shirks.

With a wrench in one hand and a bolt in the other,
he must tighten it just a little further.
A little shim to raise the block,
so this machine through the day would not knock.
With practiced hands he carefully worked it,
with a last adjustment, place the last bit.
Cleaning his place - putting away the last tool,
care of his equipment is a priority for he's no fool.
For each one a well known friend with a story.
To lose them he would be truly sorry.
Turning the knob he heard it restart.
On this end feed the blank at the other - it spits out the part
a perfect size after all the troubles,
must work it right the first time or the work doubles.

With earned rest he watches it go full tilt
the machine sings with no hint of guilt,
the parts it gives all measured true
tonight it might just make it all the way through.
A tap on his shoulder he slowly turns around,
he sees a young man with eyes to the ground.
The advice he gives him fixes the man's own
the old timer's artisan skill is time honored grown.
A combination of hard work, wisdom and knowledge
with a pinch of common sense and safety, it is a formidable ledge.
To any one who wants to learn he teaches,
the same way the old timers in his younger days preaches.
As with everything to begin and end all must come around,
to his trainee his skills must be passed and slowly bound.

With his stomach growling he knows it is time for lunch,
sometimes sitting alone or with a group huddled in a bunch.
Eating among them stories and news shared,
among this group in their work it showed they cared.
Almost the end of the day as lunch was over,
a few hours to go next to forever.
His machine is still running fine,
a lot of times his machine serves him vinegar but tonight fine wine.
When that clock hit fifteen minutes before time,
machines are turned off, everyone washes off the grime.
Everybody is ready to go and leave behind a hard day's work.
With new energy, when the shift is over it will pop like a cork.
He looks back on this day with a smile,
today is a hard working day. He felt he traveled a mile.

With the sun sitting low on the west,
he knew he did his very best.
Changing his shoes - he wonders how tomorrow would differ,
would the machine run a little stiffer.
Vacation is coming and he just wondered
if a new man would run it . Would he pondered
how can this old man run this heap,
the secret with your effort don't be cheap.
Treat her like a fine lady of steel,
push her a little too hard and she would flip her keel.
With time spent honing his skill,
when a day runs smooth it's a thrill.
tomorrow is another day for the crew,
with the working day over, with the fellows he'll share a cold brew.

January '95