Man Factory

Asphalt conveyer belts carry
rusty Chevies of primered people
to the “new and improved” industrial
machine on 122nd street.

Uniform lines of corrugated steel paper
doll men first glow, then bend, finally pour,
into the machine as calloused hands
flow into hammers and anvils.

Legs discarded, the welder’s arc
fuses hunched over spines to a line, assembling
the honor guard of the conveniences
of tomorrow and the castoffs of today.

Gray and ocher skies mirror
Vulcan’s pits as the 122nd street
fires reduce ore to slag and
make molehills out of men.

Disposable razors are smeltered at 122nd street.

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