Today's poem is by Chris Forhan
Some boys won't go willingly. I will.
Factory big as a city. Rows
of workersinnumerable, 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
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