Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Pulling Out of Hole

Over at the derrick, I see
the windows of the accommodation
staring at me, blinking in the sun.

I have noticed I am no longer invisible.
Chef said: I thought you were going off today?
I guess he would be the man to know.

A roughneck, the one going bald,
has fitted the pipe with a collar of hose
and is skimming off the orange mud.

I was just in the doghouse, talking to the driller.
He told me a story about his dad.
Then he asked me what qualifications I had.

Soundless, the hot skimmed mud
overflows from the bald man's hands
and is tramelled back into the void.

Just to remind any readers in Paris that I will be reading at the Live Poets Society on Monday 16th January starting at 8 pm. Talented Parisian writers: Amy Hollowell and Lisa Pasold, will also be reading. Please come along if you can - you'll enjoy yourself. The venue is the downstairs bar of The Highlander, 8 Rue de Nevers, 75006 Paris. The nearest Metro stations are Odéon and St. Michel (RER Line B). 4 Euros on the door.

1 comment:

Patry Francis said...

I like the earthy, realistic tone of this poem, and that last stanza knocks me out. It seems that many hearts and minds are on the collective fate of workers these days.