Momma Bob
(Dedicated to Bob Smith)

Deep in the bowels of Physics,
in a dungeon of a lab,
between rusted metal shelves
and walls with peeling paint,
Bob leans back, 
balances a wooden chair 
on two flimsy, shifty legs.
For eight hours straight
he nurses a machine,
loud with moans and groans
of three foot disks of glass
being ground, layer by layer,
into telescopic mirrors.

Between the pistoning of camshafts,
the turning of a lap as big as him,
the glass takes shape,
one of eighty which will, together,
form the largest telescopic
eye beneath our sky.

There are no stars down here,
no glorious feats of cosmic power,
no music of the spheres,
only rhythm, of a machine,
his tattered shoe tapping,
and the brilliant chromium flash
of a harmonica on his lips.

Air whistles through his mustache
as he takes a lasting breath,
then metal-plated harmonies,
the rolling shimmer of the Blues
above the drone.

Down here there is no glory,
only trembling hands,
eyes pinched shut,
and music
grinding boredom
into joy.

Scott Speck
07/19/2001