I WANT TO DRIVE THE FORK LIFT
by A. Griffin

---

I want to drive the fork lift.
I want to drive the fork lift.
I want to drive the fork lift.
I want to drive the fork lift.

I've wanted to drive the fork lift,
since 1996,
I don't care if it's a stand up,
or the sort that makes you sit.
I've a professional demeanor,
so I will not throw a fit,
but after five years in this warehouse,
they still
won't let me
drive it.

They say I'm super safety conscious,
so I don't know what it's about,
but if they'll ever let me drive it,
is the source of rising doubt.

Perhaps they found out
I'm autistic,
but I doubt it's about that -
I drive to work,
they know
I can run machines,
and that's a fact.

My hands would be busy working,
but metaphorically they'd flap,
as I remove a wooden skid
of loaded product form the rack.

I want to pull the handle,
and spin the little crank,
and being skipped for training,
is a cruel, ironic prank.

I'd lift pallets up so carefully,
and bring them down so soft,
and water up the battery,
and turn the charger on.

I read through the whole manual,
when none of the drivers did,
and I watched the training video,
till the tape was nearly dead.

I'd keep my tail inside the platform,
and buckle myself in,
and beep the horn
while loading trucks
with scrapyard metal bins.

I'll never operate a Gundam,
but I'll still be someone's Heero,
when I pull down their order quick,
and bring their wait-time down to zero.

Instead I gaze up whistfully,
like the birds up in the clouds,
the client's here,
ready to deal,
but their order's off the ground.

If only someone was around,
five days a week,
from ten to six,
for whom operating a lift
was a fondly thought of wish.

I'd give my lift a nickname,
like Mike, or Mary Ann,
I'd move the product skids around
as safely as I can.

I know I'm not the archetype,
buff and broad and gnarly,
but the best driver we have now
looks like a leather-booted Barbie.

I want to drive the fork lift.
I know it isn't always fun.
If a job drags on
past clock-out time,
I promise I won't run.

I'll do the checklist every time,
inspect the hoses and the mast,
and I swear that I won't take it out,
till all components pass.

I know Lift 1 has inverse steering,
and a flasher to give caution.
And that Lift 2 has fancy sideways shift,
and auto-level options,
and Lift 3 is in the yard,
rusting,
and housing several possums.
And Lift 4 has special sensors,
for the guiding wire lock-on,
but Lift 6 is Julie's favorite,
so only use it when she's gone.
Lift 5 was lost in an "event",
of which we never speak,
and Lift 9 has strength
for the heavy load
that comes in once a week.

I want to drive the fork lift,
I'll learn it forward and reverse.
I really love this warehouse,
but not driving really hurts.

I'd wear safety-rated footwear
to protect both of my paws,
but they won't let me be certified -
I can't work out the cause.

It's like working in a kitchen
where I can't even stir the sauce,
and the fact that I still cannot drive,
makes long-time clients pause.
They ask if I'm eighteen yet,
and I tell them I'm in my thirties,
and the more they wait to train me,
the more this all seems dirty.

I want to drive the fork lift,
I want to drive the fork lift,
I want to drive the fork lift,
they took too long -

I quit.

---

Based on a true story.

Of not driving the fork lift.

And here's the source for the fork lift picture, and the emote of my sona.

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