The Factory

The Factory
I start my shift as jars and bottles march
in perfect ranks and files from the oven,
glass soldiers of an army on parade.
An electric selector inspects their
warm bodies for weakness; those that don’t pass
muster must be mustered out—returned to
the furnace to be melted and recast.
Maybe on their next try they can run the
obstacle course. Those that pass inspection
are packed in cartons and sent down the line.
I stack the cartons on a wooden pallet,
and when the skid is at full strength, a forklift
whisks them to the warehouse to await
deployment to Smucker’s, Kraft, or Heinz.
As I end my shift, the little troopers
still pour from the oven, and advance to be
rejected or selected, sacked or packed
for shipment. “What have I accomplished here?”
I wonder. On my next day off, I do some
shopping and I see them, gleaming in the
store light, standing tall in tight formation
on their designated shelves, in dress blues
and whites, filled with jelly or mayonnaise.
I’m proud of having done my part. Later,
I contemplate their ultimate fate: used,
recycled to form the next generation,
or buried with their fellows in a landfill.