Power Station
The metal lungs have been breathing for years;
towers like cigars, slowly worn but now antique,
like an heirloom to place on the mantelpiece.
Always pummelling the sky with clouds,
tainting it to look like a sepia photograph,
like an heirloom to weep over and reminisce.
The walls are scratched with past workers and
memories, family trees wrapped like ivy around the
body, a needed hug, a needed chain.
The children ask about the distant castle,
and we tell them it's our garden -
always fruitful. All we've known.
We'll hand them the keys and sigh,
another family saved by the plant.
The tombstones all watch this home,
like a wave to a friend unreturned,
persistent...
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