Elegy for the 'Mule'
No idea where it came from,
The pipe-threading lathe
Just presented itself
On the job when it was needed.
From the truck and tools,
We rested the Mule near the alley
On its own raised platform,
It took two of us.
About 75-pounds of cast iron,
A 1¼-horse-power electric motor
Geared for slow threading.
Under the shade of an Ash tree
Out behind the building site
And empty lot next door.
Wiring a burglar alarm
Bomb-proof Central Station
Was a job that required
All of the electrical wiring
Be encased in steel-pipe
Held by threads and couplings,
Covered in concrete.
The old man called it The “Mule,”
A 1952 Rigid, Model 975,
Pipe-threading lathe.
I went to work cutting conduit
To length, screwing threads.
The task took a week.
If spurts of cutting oil missed,
They would fall on the dirt
With all the metal curlicues.
Threading ¾-inch steel conduit
From bundles on the ground,
With the ratchet-head pipe-threader,
The electric motor grinding away.
Geared-drive converted
One-and-a-quarter-horse to a Mule.
Drum carriage with levers,
A chuck with rocker-jaws
Tightly held the revolving end.
With a tape measure and pencil mark
Excising the pipe to length
By repeated tightening
The sharp wheel of the pipecutter
Using the adjustable grip,
Cutting cleaner than a hacksaw.
Throwing the three-way switch
(forward-off-reverse)
On the wiring box cover-plate.
The tapered ratchet-reamer,
Distended the pipe’s hole size,
But only a small amount.
Leaving the insides smooth,
Removing steel burrs.
Working the ratchet die-head
To the end of the pipe,
Setting the teeth of the threads.
Switching the lathe forward,
Cutting a half-inch worth.
Reversing direction of the chuck.
A wrench with a 6-inch extension
Unclamped the gripping teeth
And metal jaws of the Mule’s mouth.
Steel pipe cut to length,
Emancipated with shiny threads.
One late afternoon,
The owner’s daughter
Diverted my attention.
The ratchet handle
Of the thread-cutter
Missed the restraining arm.
The Mule lifted itself,
Hopped, leaped,
And landed in the dirt.
Then, flipping over
And over itself,
Trudged down the alley
In my direction at 57 RPM.
Before the angry lathe
Could reach me,
To my astonishment,
It died abruptly,
Unplugging itself
From the extension cord.
At the end of the day
In stifling heat,
The Mule, a tool, went away.
(It wasn’t needed anymore).
Like all things,
The Mule vanished for good.
This elegy is all that remains.