Mule-faced clouds, banners
and ribbons intertwined with grey,
chimneys puffing smoke in wetland fog,
in the quiet of the rigid green landscape,
the lighthouse keeper begins to make noise,
saying, “Ship ahoy! Ship ahoy!”
I lean against the schooner window,
returning to this part of my past,
devoid of light, life
the stench this urban landscape emits,
foul as a rotting corpse, neglected
chemical vapors rise from beneath, corroding the soul
acidic steam, ready to ambush
for the sun to show it’s smiling face,
as if it were part of the manifest,
of a ship at sail from France.
The schooner window, cold and firm
Pressed against the side of my head
Takes me away from this retched ship
To the ocean far and wide, everlasting waters
A speck of dust under the intimidating factory,
Constant commotion, gears grinding, specks of light
A bazaar, full of life yet,
There to consume the soul, to consume the flesh
of the workers who dwell within
Churning them into the ethereal mist,
That surrounds the harbor.