The work week is over, I have clocked out and left that factory far behind me.
But I close my eyes and I still see that cancerous blemish on Whitmans America.
In my ears it’s still the cacophony of commerce, the shaking hiss clanking of metal on metal.
Here I go again bitching and pouting. They say you become what you hate, I don’t know about all that although I am as daft and repetitive as that factory….. that factory makes money and that lets me out, all I’m making is a deep grave.
I’ve birthed to many poems due to that factory, and I’m working on one more. An epic one, a big bang, a poem made of blood and sweat, a poem for the nameless proletariats of America to the children in third world sweat shops.
For now, a drink for you.