Geoff Hattersley
No Chance
It’s summer, and I stare
from where I’m stuck
trimming moulds for cholocate dog bones
across the floor at Ken,
who’s fifty-seven,
who had a heart attack four years ago
during his dinner break.
There he is at the Fourteen Hundred,
hoisting hot, sharp, heavy fans,
sweat staining the back of his shirt
like a lake on a map, pouring down
his flushed forehead and face
and off the end of his nose.
He shakes his head and a thick spray
flies from his hair.
I can’t watch too long, have to look away,
have to get on with my own work
which is just as tough
in this sort of heat.
I think if I had a heart attack
they wouldn’t get me back in here
at gunpoint. That’s obvious.
I wonder what Ken was scared of
and frown.
Page(s) 37
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