Register Tuesday | June 25 | 2019

For Henry Ford

A poem

you look up at the ceiling and
your laughter that sounds like
the braying of a mule reminds
me of a german girl I knew 6
years ago—in fact, you seem
identical to her in every way 

I used to work in a canning
factory, we mass-produced
tin cans full of sliced pears
packed in syrup, I can’t say
how many identical tin cans
I saw rush by on tiny tracks
that summer, I could never
tell if I found that parade of
efficiency to be reassuring or

I think that the assembly line
virus gave us something and
took something else away

when you go, please don’t
slam the door, and if you
see the next one, tell her to
be kind to me, like you were.