Polly, Floyd, Herman and Pete
Names stitched on pockets, easy to greet.
Men whose hands were endlessly messed
From tasks they’ve repeatedly addressed.
They were soft hearted pranksters looking for fun,
Accented by hammering of an old pneumatic gun.
They worked behind grease smeared doors, casually labeled shop
On cracked concrete floors that would never see a mop.
They worked by the hour, wages tallied on cards by line.
Tasks completed in the order, experience ears assigned.
These mechanical maestros wielding cherished wrenches
Made of steel and kept at their individual benches
These men of my father’s generation
Worked long hours without accreditation.
Engineering solutions to Detroit’s rolling wonders
As well as a young man’s shade tree blunders.
– Clarence Holm