Four
hours
from
November
Factories flicker in the Rust Belt of America
Windmills tremble above
cornfields
Birds flee the
kickstart
of machinery
Churches sit on the sins of a Country
Farmhouses
sift in the wind
barn doors beg for oil
the scarecrow post is empty as
Christ’s crucifix
crumble along
the Erie canal, and
the prayers of the manufacturing class go unanswered
Factories
Small Towns
drown
in the deep end
of the country
Cities
like shifting hens,
hatch
white
plastic
grocery
sacks
People
play bit parts
to the
cigarettes
Churches
taken straight
Machinery
without a filter
Money
in our lungs
Welcome to America
