Much Work
We spend much time in the place
where metal father lived
whimpering low and lumbering
yellow trunk and foot marks
on the demonstration floor
This our corridor of iron offspring
flickering guard faces
lined in a dance row
and two telephones
We push them to work more
the guards
and the guards push them to work more
the machines
We leave our tasks
and in the morning,
look for what’s dead.
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