Foul gray smoke once belched
from tall red brick stacks
A bittersweet sign of life–
the old factory was still working
The smoke has now ended
along with the noisy metal-banging
that kept men busy
from sun up till sun down
The iron gates are chained shut
Never again, will they greet the dark faces
of hardened men with stale breath
from strong black coffee and cigarettes
Too easy to blame, too many strikes
for the factory’s foreboding silence
but hungry workers elsewhere, willing
to work for much less
and customers needing less metal
are just as much the reason
why the dark faces have grown much darker
The mill is history–
a cold, lifeless archeological ruin
So are the paychecks that paid the bills
giving small consolation to the two thousand men
laughing at each other’s lame jokes
dreaming of days
they wouldn’t have to work so hard
Now that day has come, and
their dreams and jokes both have ended.
Poetic Alchemist 