The sugar-house

The puddling furnace for the pig iron T-rail
for the fat-cat, clean shaven
rail riders who wore silk shirts made in the
sugar-house. ….they donned
shapely trimmed facade clothes and the
white jib to protect their
thumbs; sat at the stumpy bars drinking
bourbon cold with the
saw-ice. ….carried around daguerreotype
self-portraits, “O you robust
sacred reaping machines;” you ran the
sweat shop company stores
and handed out paper-mâché script to
feed your caulked iron kettles. ….
goods sold to the unsuspecting paintbrush
public, whitewashed by the
‘hook’. ….they wound up poor, fiddling like a
riddled old homeless person
on a tarnished spoon; winters cold and coffins
filled, plaited into daisy fields.

Copyright © 07/14/2015 lance sheridan®0802F915-1B48-40D1-83B2-BC79BFDCD1C1®

This entry was posted in Poetry.

6 comments on “The sugar-house

  1. Dorianna says:

    Wow! Strong words…powerful imagery

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