On the Line
Aug 9, 2017 · 1 min read

We are a factory of consciousness
Overworked on the line.
We assemble minute thoughts,
stoke the furnaces of desires.
Robotic arms with tiny hands
manipulate the moving parts of worry,
organize the maps;
one area solely for laundry
that waits in a heap as if breathing.
Double shifts in drama.
Hustle a little deal,
a smoke break.
Turn in your mother
for sleeping on the job.
Ransom your brother
For a slim chance of escape.
Mass production
of avoidance,
numbness and despair.
It is a family business.
Starts when the body
is little and unknown.
Bitter doubt
a wrecking ball.
Chaos is the bath water.
Bars on the windows
chokes all the love out.
© annie fahy 2017
See my book of poetry on Amazon called The Glass Train…

