To Work (A Pale Imitation Of Life)

The neon lit gloom,

Is a suffused glow

that strains eyes

and paints shadows

in open spaces.

The dusty air,

Is a gritty drag

through narrowed pipes

and leaves labour’s 

sooty, spitty deposits.

The fine powdering

of the toiling of an age,

settles in dispiriting dust

on sad and sagging frames

of doors and windows.

They allow us no easy way through,

to the clocking

of the clock.

The ticking of the tock;

The breaking of the rock.

The roar and clang,

of ignite and spark

that bombards an ear

which still hears this fusillade;

Even in the silence.

Roof, grey and tented high

that lets in the light

through mottled glass eyes.

And the sky

One drop at a time.

How we come here

willingly, to work,

to strain all sinews.

For a pittance

and a smile.

© M.H.