FACTORY
Light scans
the vast temple
through what
shapes ask of it.
A face,
dusty plain,
appears through
the long shadow
of American industry.
Am I
doing my job?
it asks.
No words of praise.
No acknowledgement
here’s a living soul.
Nothing.
Among
sunset’s easel
and canvases,
none paints
more glibly than
the machinery.
And with noise
not brushes.
There’s confusion.
Worker or widget,
which exactly
is the end product?
John Grey
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in Examined Life Journal, Evening Street Review and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, Poetry East and Visions International.
Tags:
Poetry