Dream: Obedience

Some boys won't go willingly. I will.
Factory big as a city. Rows

of workers—innumerable, gray,
eyes down, hands busy. Far-off

walls of black brick, grind and click
of gears above us. We're assembling

something we'll never see. A piece of it
lies in my palm, heft of a dead bird.

Someone among us is a traitor.
I walk past the camera, slowing

to show it my face and hands, to show
that I do what I don't understand.

Copyright © 2005 Chris Forhan All rights reserved
from The Laurel Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission