57 Ford

Blog this – coal rolling
lazy down the maw of
microchip enterprise events
happening in silicon places –
a woman’s face embedded in
the chip of cognisance,
winter white on sun blood.

It’s where we disembark,
travellers of concrete walkways
and doorways, the spits
beyond a setting sun, blood
in the rebellion of grey gutters,
music a moment in another
place we’ve always been.

Constructs continue to crumble
as time does, mendicant to
boxcars on a spur line between
intent and what really happened
in the gap of cradle and fifty-seven
years in the same factory job
making glue for idle daydreams.