2026, LiL Book Review, Ohio River Valley Literature, Working Class Literature

It Ain’t Broke? Dan Denton’s The Seven Stages of Middle-Class Life: An American Fable. Roadside Press. 2026

 

Order / Buy Dan’s Book Here

 

“You know they say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else,” one of his union car worker coworker buddies said, and he said that he had heard that and they talked about women some more, and drank more beer and lost the third game but probably won in the fun column still.” (86)

 

Dan Denton’s new book is the sort of manual new hires at any factory job should get on the first day of their first shift, except that HR would never let it happen because they worry no one would stay on the line. If you’ve not had the blue collar work experience, reading Dan Denton is a good way to start beginning to understand what your parents’ and grandparents’ generations went through to make sure you had a life involving the brand name Kraft macaroni and cheese. 

Our protagonist is unnamed. We see him get a job because his father had a job in the same car factory. There’s this story going around, a story that’s mostly true, about the mobility of the modern American workforce and about how most people change careers something like eight times in their lives. There’s an actual statistic about that. The problem with statistics is that they hardly ever tell the whole story. And another part of the story is that if you grow up in a factory town, if in fact there is a factory town to still grow up in, chances are good that multiple generations of your family have worked there.  It’s not nepotism, per say. Well, it is. But the term “nepo baby” only applies to the children of the rich and famous, not to the kids of blue collar fathers and mothers who work long shifts six days a week to get two weeks vacation a year and Sundays off because factory towns are also sometimes church towns. 

Dan Denton’s new book is the sort of manual new hires at any factory job should get on the first day of their first shift, except that HR would never let it happen because they worry no one would stay on the line

As the novel unfolds and our protagonist moves through the years, we find that a lot happens even when it looks like nothing at all is happening. Like the fish he goes to the lake to catch and release, most of his life is under the surface. That’s not to say we get any didactic meditations, grand social theories not-so-cleverly masked as fiction. Denton’s style here is bare-boned and descriptive. Conversations are punctuations on thoughts and feelings the other characters understand but don’t express. 

The true beauty of Denton’s novel is that it doesn’t try. It doesn’t have to try. Through our nameless protagonist, we read about the changes in work culture, in generational diaspora, and in relationships. He’s just moving through the world, working his way to retirement, and finding his way to something like happy that looks very different from the happy that was sold to him when he first got his union card. This book is neither an indictment nor is an anthem of the blue collar backbone that still holds this broken economy together. This book is an unapologetic exploration of what happens everyday to people who aren’t counted, aren’t considered, and aren’t respected enough to even be included in the statistical data set.

 

– Mick Parsons

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river possum, Ohio River, work, poetry
2026, Ohio River Valley Literature, prose, Working Class Literature

The River Possum meditates on the life of that perfect pipe wrench for a particular use:

the blue heron, the wrench, down and west off Big Savage Mountain

Saturday night on the river. The cruise ended up being a dockside event because of wind. People ask me all the time if we still cruise when it’s raining. They almost always seem surprised when I say “Yes, rain doesn’t keep us dockside. But the wind will.” A flat bottom sternwheel steamboat becomes a sail if there’s a cross wind above 20 miles per hour in the channel on the Ohio River. Our other boat, the Mary M. Miller, can manage because she has two screws, each turned by 425 horsepower straight six diesel engines attached to Cummins generators with copper rings about the same diameter of a large pizza. This past Saturday night in particular, the captains decided to make a go of it. It had been raining all day, the way it rains around here when Fall makes its proper appearance. One day it’s so hot you’re sweating in places you think time and the elements have forgotten; the next day, it rains, the leaves on the trees begin to actively let go and put on the end of summer fashion show, and there’s an ever so slight but brisk kiss in the wind. Saturday was that day. And I could tell by the white caps and the choppy waves on the river that I might get a call on the telegraph to go Astern Half on the boiler to give them more steam and more pull for getting the boat off the 4th Street Wharf. And that’s what happened. But even with all the steam I was giving them, even with all the steam the chief was giving them, the wind won out the day and we stayed dockside.

That’s the way it goes sometimes. And while there were still passengers who insisted on abusing the crew and food and beverage folks for things well outside their pay grade, the night went off as well as a last minute dockside event could go off. Stephen, the Night Chief, gave me and the other Engineering Assistant the option for one of us to go home. Dockside events only require a licensed engineer and a plus one to keep an eye on the boiler, the gen sets, whatever. I told Stephen I needed the hours, which was true. Kevin, who also has retirement income from a storied career at FedEx, went home. 

Being on the water, being down on the 4th Street Wharf, the Space Between the Bridges, means being at once in a single place and in all places all at once; the Ohio River connects, in some fashion, everything to everything. I was moored, in a way, at the 4th Street Wharf. It was a necessary shipyard stop.

I get scheduled for roughly two cruises a week. I’m grateful to be back, but still very much aware of the reasons why I need to be back at all: namely, a year ago this month, my career was pulled out from under me. Sometimes I think I should approach this with all the focus and rage of a good old fashion revenge movie. One of those with all the blood and bile and drama of a Criterion Collection Kurosawa movie. In this situation, one should always ask, “What would Toshiro Mifune do?” Depending on whether you’re in Seven Samurai mode or Yohimbo  mode, the reaction can vary. If you’re in Rashomon mode, you’re just getting blamed for all the shit you didn’t do because of the shit you actually did do that people choose to remember. I’m eight years sober, so my Drunken Angel era (I hope)  is over. But generally I think it matters more to live in the moment I’m in and use what comes. That’s as close to tao as I manage to get.

I’ve made and continue to make good use of my time; doing what might be some of the best writing of my life. Tension is the wellspring for art. Even if it’s just the tension between the non-gel tip of a pen and the texture of the paper used. Tension is the invisible ingredient that turns craft into art; it’s Grandma’s finger in the cookie dough that makes the cookies taste better. And while my poetry has always existed in a state of tension, my last three collections of poetry: Growl & Mud, A Treatise on Unseen Stars, and The Call Sign is Jonah, exist as the end result of tension between poetry and working: first as a lot dog (event security for university sports at a university where I used to teach), then as a wharf dog and finally as a river possum.  And right now, the tension from which my craft is hopefully becoming art is the tension of being the particular pipe wrench for that particular use. 

Coming back from Frostburg, west and down Big Savage Mountain, I realized that no matter how often I return to the river for work, connection, solace, and baptism, I will have to also push myself out into the world. Being on the water, being down on the 4th Street Wharf, the Space Between the Bridges, means being at once in a single place and in all places all at once; the Ohio River connects, in some fashion, everything to everything. I was moored, in a way, at the 4th Street Wharf. It was a necessary shipyard stop. I was able to get my first hip surgery. I found the blue heron and the giant cat fish. I met mermaids and drowned men and shadow walkers. And I learned about the world under the water. I was told the stories of great people and quiet people and true people. River folk are the keepers of stories, the living vaults of forgotten knowledge. Standing watch on the wharf in the winter is its own baptism, as is contending with the flood water. I was reborn and found a poetics of growls and mud that continues to speak and insist that the wind is calling. I don’t know what the coming year holds. I hope I get to be back on the river. I love the folks I work with, and I love a 112-year-old living memory steam machine. 

Down and west, driving back on I-68, the concrete rode like wind thermal, taking me and Amanda home. The funny thing about thermals and wind currents is that while they’re generally predictable, conditions can make them shift, too. It’s important to be ready to shift with them. And so sometimes, I’m that perfect pipe wrench for that particular job. And sometimes, I’m the giant catfish, fighting upstream. And sometimes, I’m the blue heron. 

 

[originally published on 10.7.26: https://eymick.substack.com/p/the-river-possum-meditates-on-the]

 

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2026, Day Book, Ohio River Valley Literature, Poet's Life, poetry, spring, the no-scape, Working Class Literature

sump pit as metaphor

[Day book 2026 // Winter 3.11.26]

What we do we do
we do we do
this regeneration
it ain’t for the weak boned
this revision, life, revisited
the spring rain drains
into the sump pit and thus
beginning again
the water keeps running
and so do I
and so do I
and so do I
I do I do I do

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