At mid-day,
you left work early to drive your father to hospital,
bad knees,
old bones.
Instead of saying a cheerful goodbye,
you simply say to turn off the machine after you have gone.
A few hours later,
you are sat with your poor old father,
in a hospital canteen,
smelling of chemicals,
over a brown wooden table,
slurping disappointing green soup,
bread not entirely fresh nor stale,
just too expensive.
Then there is the chime of your cracked sliver phone.
Pressed up to your ear,
you hear the sound of your partners voice,
unsteady but to the point.
She tells you tragic news.
After it's said,
you forget to say a word back,
or even to hang up your phone,
gripped in hand.
John,
poor poor John.
John who had worked at the factory
ten long years longer then you have,
he was ******* in knots,
******* in chains,
chains red rust with sawdust,
chains meant for hunks of wood,
not chunks of flesh,
not bone,
breakable hallow bone.
The boys had to cut the chains.
And they turned off the machine,
hours after you said to
and moments too late.

-Jamie F. Nugent