Sitting in the dust,
A bolt in hand,
Like gleaming lightning to the threaded hole it flies,
And I ratchet in an ordered rhyme,
With yellow compound coated thick,
I toil away on metal flesh,
What humble thing is this?
To work with hands so learned yet so soft,
To turn from hoovered floors and pretty screens,
Instead to dust and industrial grime,
And fasten something in the present.