summerJets

work

The thousand-pound engine swings above my head, like a pendulum on a chain. If it fails I won’t take the time to notice. I lie on the ground, my hair in the oil. My gloves are gone, my nails are dark with ancient grease. The cool floor pushes up with an equal, opposite force to that old yellow machine’s weight. The air is hot, humid, palpable with sand. I’m a reptile absorbing energy, my red, freckled skin attempts to photosynthesize. Patiently waiting for the tools as a surgeon waiting to attach a patient’s heart, all I can think is how strange the ceiling must find this picture, the heartless forklift with feet, attempting to run with legs balancing the torque of a bolt. All this weight moves with no more than a wrench.