Disassembled shells of factories shed
their bricks, streetlamps hang their heads.
Night isn't often bright in
but on certain nights the underworld leaks.
On duty, I watch Augie pinch a Winston,
sip flame into the cig’s cylinder, mumble
here come the good guys; and unstick
with a shove his driver's side door.
I follow, throw light-weight against
my side, the Volare heavy as gunmetal.
The street ahead geysers flame and casts fast
shadows. Augie's nostrils flare
from the smell and whistle of methane.
He makes an O as in o shit, stomps out
the cig's stub, stands his ground in size eleven
brogans. Call it in-- get a valve man.
A good sidekick, I run back to the car
while he curses Italian curses at the sky,
testing God or fate and venting nicotine.
When I return, all he says is: Getta wrench.
Company man and once king of the rank
and file he still relishes cold forged steel
tools and grease despite the razor crease
in his shirt sleeve, despite the wife and kids.
We wait for the crew to throttle the main,
we knock on the doors of a few holdout houses,
we are two earnest white-shirted men
bathed in gas-fed axe-murderer's light.
Augie wrinkles out a couple bucks
to an old couple. Here. Gonna be awhile.
Why dontcha go for coffee. That's ninety
psi out the front yard. Just go.
Later, with hell shoved back down the hole,
another Winston hangs from Augie's lip.
He shelters a match against the night's return
before resuming paperwork, words.
Tie still tucked between his third and fourth
shirt buttons, Augie relaxes, grins and quips,
Say boss, you look a little on edge.
They didn’t teach you this in college?