in the factory
where one’s job
is to wrestle
the storied
fish

the lunch pails
of the
     existentially
kind of
scared

hold their own
against

the stunningly
migrant
bellies     of the daughters

our boss
denies

and some of us
know our thirst
here

as a baseball
not breaking
a window    

while all of us
stick to knowing

that the world
over

     it’s impossible
for the devil     to sin