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.




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