Death Before Factory by Anthony Liccione
These factories
that surround my house
always burning,
with three chimneys
sticking out of each,
lining themselves up
like a locomotive,
only going nowhere--
they keep
smoking more clouds
to the sky,
more toxicity,
to a diseased-worn city.
And those inside
the belly of the sweat,
feeding a broiler that bleats
for more coal,
more steak and potatoes,
around a time clock
that speaks in different
tongues,
and spits out the same
repetitive, redundant
load of production.
The robotic workers.
Tattooed with
plastic trees and
roaming hungry eyes
behind their heads,
and on their backs
they sleep in a trailer
that never forgives them.
They wake to a mirror
that never eats with them,
only swallows them whole.
There is only need here
never want,
want would be asking
for new car, a new wife:
it is just enough
to make a paycheck
survive, live
until it bounces back
in a unpaid whine.
The same count by the hour,
the same quota
of faces that break their backs
and run overworked fingers
over the mill, punch press
sorting, spraying, capping
oiling, typing, tying;
the tedious conveyor belt
always lashing forward
like a snakes tongue.
The paper cuts, pepper
-cheese boxes,
assorted mail droppings
waiting for the whistle
to change shifts,
a pink slip–
to slip into a new life.
Anthony lives in Texas with his two children. His poems have appeared in several print and online journals, and he has four collections of poetry books.
©2010 Anthony Liccione, All Rights Reserved
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