I-Beams and What I Hear in my Bones

Factory tours,
harsh industrial lights,
industrious smells,
clanking tickers,
the occasional slamming of a door,
the smelting burn,
the casual goggles,
complemented by earplugs,
flame in air,
reflected in the eye.

And the slice as of a guillotine,
as the lights crash off,
as the stars burst in my head,
while my blackened face
marries the dark atmosphere,
I learn to fear the grating
metal biting metal all in time,
like clockwork I listen in,
and hear the heat hissing upon
its escape from this blood,
a shine filled with grimy specks,
an alien reality created
with painstaking human fervor,
an effort for an earning
that clanks in the sweaty pocket,
a mirroring of their work.