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      December 17, 2018C.W.P.Mike Good

      after Martín Espada

      On his first day, at the Heinz-Kraft plant,
      his boss leans over his shoulder,
      to spell out C.W.P., which stands
      for Continuous Wiener Production.
      Outside of Columbia,
      Missouri, the sun rises, bathing the plains
      in bronze. Inspecting the factory,
       
      taking notes, watching pink pulp strain
      through steel grates,
      he walks, white hard
      hat jostling to the side. It won’t stand straight.
      At the end of the line, entire
      cartons of wieners fill pallet
      after pallet, spitting three
      centuries of hot dogs
      on every hour. One man guides
      the dogs’ tongues like a shepherd. Watching
       
      this man, he feels the white-striped
      collar beneath his smock
      mingle with oil, brine,
      and boiled shells. The contraption jams. He asks
      the man to show him how
      he will fix it, and together, they change
      the sprocket of the trimming
      machine. The man handing him the tools.
      Cajoling the crescent
      wrench, he thinks of hours under
      his father’s car, though he is not his father
       
      who doesn’t earn a salary,
      who doesn’t have a bachelor’s degree,
      who is looking for a job again,
      who does not wear latex gloves
      to meet protocol. The machine clicks
       
      into place, and how it churns
      for the perfection of wieners: inflating
      cellulose casing with precision,
      imposing order from
      the fleshy chaos of animal hearts
      and plastic parts, inching
      down the line. Industrial rolling pins
      rattling like chainmail, hammer
      on metal, pregnant vats overturning mountains
      of hot dogs. Amid the din of steam
      and steel he recalls
      the briefing, that Lay-offs
      are coming. He will conduct performance
      reviews, though he assumes
      he is immune, watching boxes of chicken
      intestines and cow products
      grin into homogenous
      batter. In one month, after firing
       
      this man, himself gone too, he will drive
      back to his wife
      in their new Hyundai Santa Fe, backseat
      still empty, gripping the leather steering wheel
      with heavy hands that slip. Heavy
      from what? Tears? Condiments?
      Grease? Those fingers that once threshed
      electric chords, that once spidered
      across the fretboard. He tells
       
      himself, it may only be a matter
      of time, that the two of them may
      only need to wait a while longer
      for the things they had
       
      planned upon. He consoles himself,
      at last, with the odd recognition
      of just how far he has come from home.

      for Jonathan Good

      from #61 - Fall 2018

      Mike Good

      “Around the time I wrote the first draft of ‘C.W.P.,’ the theme of home—returning to it, longing for it, even escaping from it—seemed to be recurring in many of my poems. Many of us spend a great deal of time and energy trying to figure out where we belong, or trying to assess if where we are is where we want to be. Rightfully so. When I started this poem, I was still living in a cabin in southwestern Virginia. By then, I had been away from Pittsburgh, where I have spent most of my life, for nearly two years. Initially, I planned to extend my stay in Virginia, but soon found myself moving home. While it did not arrive for a long while, this was the first poem I was able to finish after I moved back into the city.”