Broken glass, flattened fences,
subways sing the language of
city blues, not counting bruises
or blocks with empty parking lots
that mourn the loss, not knowing how
to cry.
Factories out the country, signs say
keep out as men without gloves and
collars up spit on the properties that
once supplied their families well.
At half past 5 no whistle blows telling
the workers to leave. Ghosts with sounds
and machines without lives haunt the
floors at night in the jungle of twisted
metal and abandoned cars and souls.
Roger Singer 