The hammer and the new machine

(A Blues for Guillermo, nicknamed Memo, who worked making danishes for seven years until last week)



He was about to ask me to the movies; I would have said no;
I declined when he asked me to play basketball—where are you now,
Guillermo, you said when you went to Mexico you’d take me with you

This is the hammer that killed John Henry, but it won’t kill me

I only saw him for about one second in his street clothes
leather coat, shoulder bag, it wasn’t that he was handsome
or not handome in bakery clothes face framed by white

Pictures fall like a forty pound hammer on my heart, ten hours a day

The day we met, Memo asked me to spell out my name
on a paper fry-cook hat on the floury table. The day after
the day we met, Memo wore my name upside down—it isn’t just that

This is the hammer that killed John Henry, but it won’t kill me

Memo asked me where I lived, was it near the pool
he rode the #11 past every day. I said why not just get off,
Memo, why did you not get off?

Pictures fall like a forty pound hammer on my heart ten hours a day, twelve hours a day

They were looking for someone else; Memo answered the door,
they ran a check on his ID. I can not picture where he is,
I do not know what these words mean.

This is the hammer that killed John Henry, but it won’t kill me

Paula’s shopping for a new machine
which can be programmed to roll out the dough in sheets
but will it sing?

This is the hammer that killed John Henry, and it won’t kill me.
For this I am ashamed.