The light sifts down from the naked bulb
he’s quickened with a string. He speaks
to no one out of the well of his anger.
He says, “I hate this,” and he stops.
He means more than this one-man shop
on Grand River where he stores the drive-
shafts, bearings, and U-joints swiped
from the Rockwell Arsenal. He means
the stalled traffic outside, the semis
barking and coughing, the gray floor
inside littered with crowded pallets
so filthy they seem furred. He means
the single desk and chair, the hat rack
holding no hats, he even means the phone
he’s become so good at, for he’s learned
to give nothing away that matters and still