Pole Nine by Kilmeny MacMichael

There is a man, relatively young

the sand in the soil here dusting his green-grey work pants

and his black t-shirt under hi-visibility vest

we’ve got similar light brown loose-curl hair

that shade that looks like it just missed.

This man is digging a hole all by himself

with a long-handled shovel and earbuds.

I would not have imagined it was still done like this

but he’s digging a hole by hand

a hole where a replacement power pole

will be placed upright early next week

he is bringing up rocks.

What is he listening to through his earbuds?

today I am listening to 99Luftballons

I could go ask what he thinks about

the dwindling of wild tigers

the prospects of reaching Mars

the Blade Runner unicorn or his name.

He does not seem angry, upset, sad or happy

he does not seem tired doing his job

while I pretend this is mine.

Yesterday I tried to suggest a description of a warehouse
with “forklifts eyeballing boxes to fill orders”

seemed to be blindly lacking in human

realized afterwards maybe I was wrong

maybe the other writer hadn’t erased

a living breathing forklift operator from his mind

maybe the modern warehouse he knew just never was manned

and my gut grasp of the world is out of date as my music and movies.

Today, though, I see this man digging a hole by hand to carry power

and I don’t think I’ve fundamentally misunderstood anything at all.