A small sky then, beyond the roller door
wan morning light and these men wearing green
overalls, their names stitched in red over
beating hearts, who greet each other before
work. That welder, the heavy man who has
seen too much sorrow, his son will kidnap
a school bus. The lathe operator lights
a cigarette for breakfast, humming jazz.
He squints against smoke, ambition growing.
Does he dream of success, his growly blues
guitar? His mate, the sheetmetal worker,
thinks of the comfort of words,not knowing
that poems crowd his future. A bell shrieks,
machines whirr into action and these men
hunch over oiled steel hating the time and
motion study expert whose shined shoes creak.
Ian C Smith