On Industrial Spaces

There is a majesty to rough edges and gathering stains of rust, bits of orange

that hint at previous glory, a usefulness

plain-spoken.

And the workers, in their anonymous uniforms of the day,

remain grateful for employment in the old yards and factories, as sunlight

heats their tools and machines

with its unbearable demands.

There is nothing easy within the space of labor.

And the work itself remains a blessing, dispersed throughout the years, given

as a promise to the generations.

Perhaps our grandparents feared we would forget,

as progress made its deceptive way into the age.

In the embrace of better living, would we fail to honor the ways of blood

and filth on faces, life

on its own terms, embedded under our nails?

One thinks of the danger taken to hands and fingers and limbs, of the fumes

and bits of metal that scald and blind.

Such enemies hide quietly as workers pass by,

their machines sturdy and dutiful by morning but famished

by the approach of night, a secret hunger

less often seen, rarely remembered as the revolution of progress

continues.

Hour by hour and nights upon days, as even our morning light

conforms itself to industrial space

and is not spared,

workers and their children continue to arrive

on time.