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Poetry Archive
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by Karen J. Weyant | ns 69
Two months without a contract,
he is thinking about money when he remembers
the taste of cheap cigarettes—
the ones he smoked when they were on strike in '82.
The only one still here who would remember that year
is Janet, Muff, everyone used to call her
before her eyes got misty with cataracts,
before her hair got gray, before
her hands started shaking. Janet, who is now
telling stories, stories he has almost forgotten—
how they tossed nails in front of the company trucks
how they stole monkey wrenches and screwdrivers
from the storage rooms, how they threw snowballs
at all the scabs who crossed the picket line.
He only remembers that it had been cold, so cold,
that everyone had worn two pairs of gloves
while holding their signs: Honk, if you support us.
He only remembers that after three weeks
people stopped punching their horns
and that money ran low, too low for high gas bills.
He doesn't remember if they actually won anything.
He thinks of the meeting tonight, the vote,
and puts the Bic pen that is tucked behind his ear
between his lips, trying to inhale.
All he tastes is plastic.
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ns 69 | Fall/Winter 2007
 Featuring an interview with MH Abrams, reviews of new books by Walter Benn Michaels, John McGowan, and Paul Smith, plus a special section on online criticism.
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