tied together tenements
watch in silence, as the day shift shuffles by.
Graveyarders sleep in cold sheets,
waiting to punch in.
The factory drones on,
congested coronary of this town.
Paralytic families live side by side,
swallowing working class pride.
The barroom is not on the corner,
its dim interior swallows silent men,
sitting, thinking, drinking,
knowing a reality, that is never on t.v
This is not the stuff that beer commercials are made of.
Women at home are not happy that it's Miller Time.
They sit sedate and wait
in the soft blue night light
of electronic companionship.
Spring is always on the way,
but always just a day away.
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