#factory - Hello Poetry

There are ways and then there are ways-- yours put foreign powers on DefCon 5 out of pure jealousy. Night shift at the factory is enough to melt skulls, reverse the flow of hearts, turn bones to industrial byproduct out of sheer boredom. I loved you wearing jeans and safety goggles, better than gown and pearls any day. We took a picnic lunch to the city park, and set our eyes to floating on the gray waters of the flammable, compromised river that cuts through it. "This is fun," we lied, and fed bread to a one-eyed pigeon who kept missing with his first peck. The customs agents had stopped me the time before; they searched my emphysemic, cookie-cutter piece of **** right down to the wheel wells. Holding up my rubber boots, one of them asked, "Do you work at the plant?" Well, what do you think, ******* What do you think? So you got even with them for me the next time-- you, fluent in Russian, Romanian and doubletalk pretended not to understand the agent's fractured schoolroom parlance, and mumbled until he let you through just to be rid of you. How crazy that you should be Catholic-- I've never seen a craftier shoplifter. Each time the grid went down, I kissed you for your pilfered candles, your flashlight, your ****** little radio that kept us informed as I buried my face in your sweetness like an irradiant. There are ways and then there are ways, and yours are the finest ever to grace my ******* box apartment that I had to be on a waiting list for years, to get. Everything is always in short supply-- once, you backed me through a rope of yellow hazard tape and right into a defective forklift with a kiss, on work time. My shoe soles picked up God knows what from the filthy floor, but my heart was happy as the assembly lines rattled behind us. There is plenty everywhere that can poison a person, or sow cancer seeds that will explode later on. We gave that year of our lives to the production of jugs of kitchen cleanser, since banned. Everyone who worked there had red hands and brittle nails, despite the gloves, despite the icons some of us prayed to. Oh well. I was happy, and even though you left just as it all seemed so good, that year was pure, flawless, redeeming even, like love can be sometimes, and as your ways definitely were, and still are, in some other woman's bed in another town, where you mumble into her ear in Romanian and she holds you closer for all the good such motions ever do.

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Aug 12, 2025

Aug 12, 2025 at 3:13 PM UTC

ShayCaroline

A Year in the Factory

There are ways and then there are ways-- yours put foreign powers on DefCon 5 out of pure jealousy. Night shift at the factory is enough to melt skulls, reverse the flow of hearts, turn bones to industrial byproduct out of sheer boredom. I loved you wearing jeans and safety goggles, better than gown and pearls any day. We took a picnic lunch to the city park, and set our eyes to floating on the gray waters of the flammable, compromised river that cuts through it. "This is fun," we lied, and fed bread to a one-eyed pigeon who kept missing with his first peck. The customs agents had stopped me the time before; they searched my emphysemic, cookie-cutter piece of **** right down to the wheel wells. Holding up my rubber boots, one of them asked, "Do you work at the plant?" Well, what do you think, ******* What do you think? So you got even with them for me the next time-- you, fluent in Russian, Romanian and doubletalk pretended not to understand the agent's fractured schoolroom parlance, and mumbled until he let you through just to be rid of you. How crazy that you should be Catholic-- I've never seen a craftier shoplifter. Each time the grid went down, I kissed you for your pilfered candles, your flashlight, your ****** little radio that kept us informed as I buried my face in your sweetness like an irradiant. There are ways and then there are ways, and yours are the finest ever to grace my ******* box apartment that I had to be on a waiting list for years, to get. Everything is always in short supply-- once, you backed me through a rope of yellow hazard tape and right into a defective forklift with a kiss, on work time. My shoe soles picked up God knows what from the filthy floor, but my heart was happy as the assembly lines rattled behind us. There is plenty everywhere that can poison a person, or sow cancer seeds that will explode later on. We gave that year of our lives to the production of jugs of kitchen cleanser, since banned. Everyone who worked there had red hands and brittle nails, despite the gloves, despite the icons some of us prayed to. Oh well. I was happy, and even though you left just as it all seemed so good, that year was pure, flawless, redeeming even, like love can be sometimes, and as your ways definitely were, and still are, in some other woman's bed in another town, where you mumble into her ear in Romanian and she holds you closer for all the good such motions ever do.