factory work

the factory was led
by the primary dreamer

his job
to see the way
using the vision
of the night

to tell
with just a glance
the true state
of the factory

of the way things are

the way
they need to be

the guard
stationed at the gatehouse
an unskilled job
was meant to receive
was not supposed
to judge

but every man
and woman
must present their poem
at the gatehouse

or else
no work

or else
no pay

or else no life
to warm their hearts
before the glare
of the red-eyed kiln

the unblinking kiln

he thought Madelaine
had progressed
the most
in the last few months
had high prospects

her verse
held form
and flow
a strict metre

Pedro though
was still stuck inside
little doggy rhymes

not much

enough
for the right
to get his cheque
on payday

Kenny
the guard
sometimes read aloud
quietly
a few of the stanzas
he steals

down at the pub
in the parlor
with a pint of beer
when he was
by himself

all the time
thinking

one day

one good day
he would
write a poem
that he thought himself
on paper

and earn the right
to hand them in
to some other guard
while he worked
the better work
with the other skilled

in front of
the red-eyed
of the factory

under the sleeping hand
of the dreamer

the master dreamer

until then
he’d accept the scribblings
and notes
of every working man and woman
who filed by him
to start their shift

and he’d practice
by reading them
in a murmur

his lips
moving
in the near silence
of an act
of faith


© Frank Prem, 2017

August 2017 Poem #14: the itch (a worried man ramble)

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4 thoughts on “factory work

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