Trigen
The sign hammered to the bricks says Trigen,
and by the sounds I hear, tonight you sing again
Pushing the irons living out of their apartments,
vacant lots, rusty dirt, asleep on the escarpments.
Trigen, Trigen, what is it your bellows make?
A ragman's finger that doesn't break?
An ivy's roots that always take?
Trenchant hands that scratch and rake?
Grays Ferry cuts a diagonal scar
felt underneath the technician's cars.
Walking like moths to a flame,
their soundtrack is the drone at dawn.
Trigen, Trigen, save me from my time not told,
savannah grass under light of gold,
a spindly tree, alone and old,
like sperm to an egg, the snakes grow bold.
Trigen, my sweat is slinking down your steps
you've got the walls of a tomb and your next
song's always playing.
The black streets are greying, your fires braying,
your windows stuck like hands, quietly praying.
1 comment:
I used to work in that God-Forbidden place, and I can identify with your poem. I worked there for almost 5 years, and it took its toll on me big time. The rotating shiftwork was one thing. 2 weeks of 6am to 6pm followed by 2 weeks of the opposite. The worst part is the lack of upkeep in those buildings. It is a very dangerous place. The bare minimum amount is spent to make millions of dollars. But what else is new?
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