Foundry

These are men
Of the original furnaces,
Surrounded by sirens
And evolved machinery,
Overground miners
Of molten steel
Can feel unreal;
Hard hats, shifts,
Time cards and whistles,
Yellow painted railings,
Actors strutting
Like working class
Pennsylvanian
Rock stars on a
Stag night.
Billboards and pool tables,
An orthodoxy of
Beer bottles
And Pepsi adverts.
They wore tuxedos
In the evenings
And baseball caps
While you lay bleeding.
One of their colleagues
Lost a finger once
And a thumb,
But it was settled
Out of court.
What will we call stag nights
And hen nights
When there are no more
Of the extinguished
Smelting, fiery,
Delicate creatures,
And no more churches
For weddings,
And what would we name
A distant irreligious war
When you do not return;
Or should you do, then not
With the same fire
As you were founded with
Many years before.

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