Poem
Artillery Factory
Jobs Assemble Death
The year switched
to a new day with hope
for 365 second chances
to stifle minds
from sending artillery.
Rainy Seattle stuck
me here with a job
that Dad got me.
I smudged grease
from my hands
onto my face
at the factory.
My forehead glistened
and the grease trailed
over my brow
and stung my dry eyes.
I blinked my lashes
like windshield wipers
removing light rain.
I used a tissue to stop
the irritation.
Our defense contractor
asked for more bombs
than we could make.
Still, we made them
to feed our families.
I wondered where these
bombs would drop.
Who’d they kill?
What excuse will
the government claim?
An executive order
to carpet bomb
a town whose world
was already in disarray.
A terrorist with a new name
will face the judgment
of a bomb, not promised
to strike his home.
Perhaps a neighbor would set
his sights on insights.
Bodies piled as collateral damage
reads across the news ticker.
I scrubbed the grease
to attend my daughter’s soccer game.
The sun-kissed my skin
as I lifted my head at the cloudy sky.
I feared no bombers overhead.
I hoped the dead would rest
in the peace that they deserved to live.
(© 2024 AC)
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