My mother riveting—

at the Boeing plant on Oliver,

gunning metal into metal.

Did she smack gum to pass time?

Juicy Fruit, Teaberry—trying

to recall Del Shannon lyrics,

her tan cowboy boots pointing

upward, predetermination

in each loop stitch.

I bet she took smoke breaks

without one lipsticked cigarette—

all she knew their first names—

Peg, Debra, Evelyn.

Was it Peggy beside her

when the hydraulics failed,

and the machinist came?

Did her boots catch his eye,

or the strain of her jeans tight-

lipped under her sweater? Maybe

he liked to imagine her

gum falling to the ground.

Or was it later, in the gravel

lot out back, when he watched her

throw a leg over the motorcycle,

hair tossed up like wheat chaff?

What a kick-start.

She must’ve revved the engine,

her ankles turning over