Leo's Tool & Die, 1950 br br In the early morning before the shop br opens, men standing out in the yard br on pine planks over the umber mud. br The oil drum, squat, brooding, brimmed br with metal scraps, three-armed crosses, br silver shavings whitened with milky oil, br drill bits bitten off. The light diamonds br last night's rain; inside a buzzer purrs. br The overhead door stammers upward br to reveal the scene of our day. br We sit br for lunch on crates before the open door. br Bobeck, the boss's nephew, squats to hug br the overflowing drum, gasps and lifts. Rain br comes down in sheets staining his gun-metal br covert suit. A stake truck sloshes off br as the sun returns through a low sky. br By four the office help has driven off. We br sweep, wash up, punch out, collect outside br for a final smoke. The great door crashes br down at last. br In the darkness the scents br of mint, apples, asters. In the darkness br this could be a Carthaginian outpost sent br to guard the waters of the West, those mounds br could be elephants at rest, the acrid half light br the haze of stars striking armor if stars were out. br On the galvanized tin roof the tunes of sudden rain. br The slow light of Friday morning in Michigan, br the one we waited for, shows seven hills br of scraped earth topped with crab grass, br weeds, a black oil drum empty, glistening br at the exact center of the modern world.