Sitting in pouring rain
Cars like mine wait for their turn in the
Fort McHenry tunnel
We are worn out in our cells—
Outside the city
Wistfully waits for us
To find a speck of beauty in
That otherwise dreary face.
Around me smoke stacks make their way
Through low weeping clouds
And piles of salt and coal and dirt
Seem like shadowy mountains
And the train tracks are run with weeds
The buildings are rusted
Their windows cracked like the dim twinkle
In the eyes of a man
Who works hard for his family.
We are stubborn, strong,
And the steel is in our veins.
Great poem. Just found you via Twitter. One slight tweak, the word “weeded” sounds like someone pulled the weeds. Perhaps “weedy.”
awesome stuff – we need another Woody Guthrie for unemployed factory workers, like Woody sang for the dieing agrarian age. That guy with the twinkle in his eye knows he's lucky, to support a family on bmore pay.
enough ramblin – give a call and keep the poems coming! – john p
true true poemblaze! i tend to be a rather impatient writer and sometimes pay for it 🙂 thanks for reading and EJP, you know the poems will continue….