Forklift

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Forklift


Pushing my cart of quarter-round 

which I will later mis-measure 

and come clattering back for a second


chance at making the cut, 

they unwound the accordion 

fence to fend off the register, 


accord the man in the orange vest

the space to make music behind 

the controls. To take such a bulk 


and not simply lift it but whirl it round

like a pressure-treated planet 

in the cramped space of our being


here, wheels skirting calamity 

of candy rack and stack

of plywood by less than the width of 


a breath, may I forever quiver as one 

star-bit, finding no

of words to serve as a protective gloss


to cover this  


beyond the grinning admission 

of the woman at the fence,


seeing my loss: “That’s why

he’s the boss.”



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