Grey and white clouds

  half cover blue skys 

 and magnify the June sun.

The deafening racket

of the unceasing operations

of the furnaces, grinders,

and various other

dangerous machines

inside the plant 

 blend into a distant,

static white noise

that can be continually heard

from the smoke hut outside.

 A man

wearing a black cap

with red lettering

that says PING,

converses passionately

 with a starnger

on his cellular phone.

A stranger to me,

but someone

important to him.

  Another man,

the shotblast operator,

smokes a cigarette

 and francticly

taps his foot.

 The hot air

 is thick

with moisture,

 a calm reminder

of yesterday's violent

 storm. Trees bent

by harsh winds

 and drowning

torrents or rain.

 Huge bolt lightening

 blinding eyes.

Vibrations

of thundershocks

shattering stillness

of concrete floors.

But now,

only muggy overcast

day clouds are

 in the sky. Crowds

in the canteens

gather for free,

mediocre coffee

from the machines.

 Caffeine jolts

to drive

 the industrial machine.

Not stale,

but dry,

sandwiches

feed oil stained

men and women 

ritualistically

meeting with

their friends

at tables,

as they have

for years.

Talks of crazy

politicians,

oil wars,

the end of existance,

tomato gardens,

flowers,

and disrespectful

children poisoned

by popular culture.

 Dirty floors

and tables, 

swept clean and

continuously dirtied.

 No unions here

in this plant

nestled safely

in a right-to-work state.

 No collectives

allowed outside

of churh and lodges.

Loud buzzers

 shout periodically

to mark times

and rouse

 sleeping minds.

 Tasks appointed

for arcane

circular purposes.

 Do,

 undo work.

Feed the

machine