Monotony of Machines

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The air is filled with
the smell of rotting fruit.

Men and women hunch over,
backs aching in unison,
their hair stuffed into hairnets,
beneath the plastic, yellow hardhats.

The continuous clanging of cackling machines,
steel snarls sharply at their guarded eardrums.

The rhythms ricochet off the cold
metal walls, like bullets they take a life.

The hands of the clock,
circle round and round, busy hands
move along the conveyor belt.

Stepfather is nowhere to be found.
Mother, who works in the factory,
is more of a man than he is;
the children are hungry, six mouths are waiting.

Her preoccupied hands
shove the peaches into cans.
The hours get longer each year,
until she never sees the sun.

The chemicals, the blood hemorrhaging,
the hospital bed, the bills, the late night visits,
the lawyers won't take the case.

Twenty seven years
and the factory disappears,
retire early and get a new job.

Mama, take the hush money.