Punching the Clock

"Will you tell the Man?"

I looked at the Papers

in his hand, his haggard

face, skeletal frown.

I said, "Not a word,"

though it meant my life;

Moonlight carving

out our path in the

blazing night...

We look down the road,

that unwind of

dappled Asphalt,

it was never flat,

like ripples in the

the rain sweated,

hunched back.

The road says:

"I wear the black

for the poor and

the beaten down,"

Steamrolled, and

crumbling now...

Everything is

falling 'round...

I grabbed his arm

and we ran;

Two kids

with candy

wrappers saying

In God We Trust!

while the factory

is roaring loud,

with indignation

of a proud and

wealthy face,

all grown up,

as pride of the Nation.

"What was made?"

behind that grand

burning blockade,

passersby 'll query

one day...

Steel.

An alloy

of Iron Fist and

Carbon dusted

footprints.

"Oh, but the fire

went wild!"

says my friend,

gasping

out one

more salt-

smoked look...

Stole our breath,

beat us down,

but not yet to

our death...

Not yet behind

the bars

we were

making,

for ourselves.

07.08.2023

Cash & Carry challenge @hunter_graham