On the Textile Factory Floor; Driving Toward Tucson by John Grey

On the Textile Factory Floor

A giant loom

with ten thousand bobbins

churns out blanket after blanket,

in a relentless rhythm

of clatters and clanks,

as dye vats hiss in the background,

drying chambers rattle and roll.

I wonder how many grey-haired grandmothers

are churned up in the mammoth machinery,

their bony fingers turned to steel,

hawk eyes, peering from each level,

steering their well-oiled hands through

the complex maze of mechanics.

If I listen closely,

I can hear the heartbeat,

the short breaths,

the creaking bones.

Sure, it’s speeded up ten thousand times.

But Missy May is in there somewhere.

Driving Toward Tucson

Gracious and playful

is the desert at sunset.

For my benefit alone,

it unleashes its phantoms

on all sides.

Their glass bodies

glisten from perfect spheres.

The more they glow,

the more I’m drawn to them.

And the road, mile by mile,

is a cavalcade

of sky enchantment,

horizon Renaissance art.

Heat subsides,

My car is soundless.

The steering wheel disappears,

my hands with it.

I no longer need drive,

I am carried into night

by the ghosts of fading light.

I pass into a darkness

that continues to mimic light.