God forbid I should try to improve myself,
says the bitter jobber whose family truck
is stolen outside the workshop
where we are bonding steel with argon gas.
I’m learning to weld and getting burned constantly.
I am fidgety during the chemistry lesson.
Each half hour I consult the order
of chambers: cup, collet, body, cap, electrode.
I chase the pooling bead whose trail
is near-invisible. Getting old sucks,
says Christian the teacher, my age,
who tells me to lay my head directly
on the cool table, next to the flame.
I swig my tea. It stays hot all night
in its flask. We are not allowed to drink
or listen to music. But I bet in life
we would take these risks high.
Near the end of the welded seam
I ease the pedal to 50 percent.
It’s a piano and a sewing machine.
Women are usually better at this,
Christian whispers, a secret for me.
I hold the flameless tungsten torch
like I’m miming the finish of a crème brûlée.
The gas is the cap. It finishes invisibly.
We need patience with invisibility.