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LABOR POEM OTW: Factory Town

Chris Garlock | Published on 5/26/2024

Small town, Small job folks, Factory folks.

The man enters

home,    wears work on his breath. She dodges

broken    glances with dinner and a peck.

Wild blackberry slices

each hand that reads

clocks     stuffed with musty school switch

scars.

Noon fire whistle blares. Water tower

the only one who sees beyond its limits.

From morning till covers crease

     all our clothes stink

           of greased salt.

The potato chip factory wages time on us.

Rene Mullen, Blue Collar Review

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