Tags
capitalism, laundromat, life, machines, people, poem, poetry, poverty, realism, socialism
The tracks shone in the wet gloomy night
the tram rounded the bend into its straight flight
on this night there was little to hold
cars came and went
as the cold wind blew
people scurried to escape the damp
others fronted the wet
beneath the scut of a lamp
in from the wet life trickled on
machines turned around
until the dirt was gone
Rattle,rattle
money,money
cried out the machine
the poor struggled the chill
they had to keep clean
“All care no responsibility accepted”
read the sign on the wall
the conductor moved forward to gather his all
the possessions he carried were pittance
to those near the fire
for the battling comrade
they’d taken years to acquire
“sit over there where your’e not in sight”
the voice on TV spoke
one wondered whether he was talking
to those who could see
the people couldn’t here him
they had their papers to read
far more important events
were conjured by greed
a trace that thrashed over the wet steel lines
running on those
that stood under the signs
Then the machine stopped
and the jean jacket stood up
those visitors had moved to another tram stop
yet their paths still followed the same uphill rise
for the thirsty had already planned their demise
so I sat watching
taking it all in
amazed at the machine that could always win
it was no one’s fault the machine turned around
though the poor may as well
have left their clothes on the ground
or out in the wet
where they’d never be dry
for the machines sounded out their useless cry
sashaholden1 