DEUS EX MACHINIST
It is a long morning before his two machines are up and running.
He ransacked his simple brain about mechanical difficulties,
graphed X & Y on spindle and turret,
followed the blueprint like a map,
adjusted a dozen tool holders,
taken his measurements,
made his calculations,
cleaned the debris,
greased the gears,
filled the tanks…
He anticipated problems,
adjusted and readjusted, and readjusted his readjustments,
using caliper, micrometer, and many stingy gauges;
it might be midmorning or midday…
When his machines are finally producing parts,
he feels like the captain of a ship just launched;
he feels the smooth, deep pull of water beneath,
having lost contact with the ground,
gliding effortlessly,
no longer resistance —
only the kind of peace that comes
from knowing you’re not in control.
He walks around,
hands clasped behind his back,
a proud ship captain;
he lifts a newly wrought steel valve to his eye like a telescope:
a shop seer.
The overused insert on head one moans like a fog horn,
the pressure relief of the mill sounds like the blowhole of a whale,
the whirl of the live-tooling drill like a propeller.
He strolls between his creaking, groaning machines,
one at starboard, one at port,
they hum and rumble along;
he acts as if he is making strict calculations,
and busy at his work,
when really
he is searching…
Engines roaring,
coolant spraying like ocean mist,
he lets his machines
take him out to sea.
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