Young Martin, his family called him, was 66
when told it was time to get his things in order,
9 months after retiring from Ames Machine,
where a scrap metal kid hustled his way
to VP Manufacturing. 46 years. Like nothing.
He led the CNC revolution, then robotics,
cutting down the factory floor from 86 to 8
while sales grew 10 times. Some hated him.
Ames Jr., so angry when Young Martin quit,
ordered no party allowed in the lunch room,
and skipped the off-site gathering at Wiley’s.
Never said goodbye. Just hired an Indian guy.
Young Martin took May to England, Italy,
Ireland, France. Worked to shoot his age
in golf at a club where he caddied as a teen.
Loved the grandkids. Loved when they left.
Stillness and quiet flowed in simple syrup
through his old farmhouse, all the acreage
sold off to an ag giant based in Barbados.
The kids all doing well. Still married. Jobs.
He only said it once at Wiley’s, “Penny Lane..,”
the sales admin named Penny, renamed
after the Beatles song….”I’m going to try
to be human for a while. I forgot what it
was like.” May knew. She tried to steer
him there many times, so he’d live longer,
thankful for the way he provided. Costly.
But who really knows what causes cancer.
It just happens. Could be all the grilling.
Could be the bourbon. Cigarettes, pack
a day for 12 years before he kicked it.
All the poison and particles that ran
through Ames like riders of apocalypse.
Saw Penny Lane again at Wiley’s, after
the diagnosis had pulsed through town,
and told her, “I really wanted to live
long enough to be a little old man,
quiet, most of my old friends dead,
something like a history book, dull
as hell to my grandkids. My children
will talk politely to me, no real give-
and-take because I won’t know anything
about the new world, my mind slipping,
telling the same stories over and over.
I’d be free, Penny Lane, child of God again,
gone back to side with animals and plants.
Worthless. Worthless as all that made us.”
Chrome Press 