The plastic factory

by Tyler Bigney

Four nights a week
from dusk until dawn
I followed the railroad tracks
the two miles to the plastic factory
where I sat on hard stools
and tied knots
for twelve hours
until my fingers bled
and calloused.

The old lady with the bad perm
came by with a stopwatch
making sure I could tie thirty knots
per minute. I could.
She left me alone after a week or so,
alone to dream about Russia,
Turkish summers,
Ferris wheels,
Iranian women,
until there was nothing left
to dream about.
When the sun came in through the windows
and the smell of coffee lingered
we knew it was time to punch out, go home
and sleep.

Every now and again
one of the men would offer me a drive home,
and I would decline
telling them that I didn’t mind the walk
that the walk was good for the body
and for the soul.
I wish I did take them up
on their offer
because my feet were heavy
and it was always a long walk home
for someone
with nothing
left to dream about.