From the air
We are taking an inventory of factories.
From this height
You cannot tell what a factory does,
But all factories have certain characteristics,
Certain modules and leanings and stacks
That you can look straight down on
And say, yes, that is a factory.
It is wonderful to be certain in one's profession.
This morning there were eighty-seven factories;
By tomorrow half may have migrated,
Or only a few. From the air
The place where a factory once had been
Will seem shadowed, thinner, less
Organized. The land's tears
Already will be turning into rivers again,
The track of the factory's coming
Will be shallower than the track
Of the factory's going. It is sad.
But I just do the counting.
I look down, I mark the paper
Abandoned against my clipboard, I ask the pilot
For ever more cautiously benign circles.

About the Poet

Ken Poyner divides his time between being an Information Systems manager, eye-candy at his wife's power lifting meets, and an on-again, off-again writer of whatever troubles him at the moment. He has had work in places from Poet Lore to Silver Blade, to Fleeting, Corium, Menacing Hedge, Full of Crow, Emprise Review, and about 70 other places. He has been pestering the public with his writings since the mid 70s.