the gear turner’s burden
is a wrench and lonely work
on the plains beyond
old 66 where grass
fire prays the flowers
into smoke he turns
his shoulder to his work
where he sweats the ground
grows mud he knows
the hoarse and tired voices
calling from the gears
creaking aching groaning
rusty throats and steel tongues
pinned and staked
burned and buried all the years
forgotten when the earth closed
healing on their work
in strange articulation
the gear turner hears a song
the old machines the old machines
he’ll whisper to the others
when evening fires burn low
he’ll creak and groan
in steel tongue stolen
riddles to their questions
—
This is another poem based on the image in The Mag #109. I did another one from this same photo last year.
James Brush is a teacher and writer who lives in Austin, TX. He tries to get outside as much as possible.
Be First to Comment