Two Poems
Keith Driver

A Factory

Mom spilled her kisses from the mezzanine.
We spread them on the anvil, hammered.

Pretty smoke groped us from the furnace.
I moaned, "My hibachi bulged in fumes."

Then we put the ice upon the lathe, which was brassy.
Mom said the shavings all but blushed.

Very patiently, we sizzled in the breakroom.
The muscatel was purple when we drank it.

Then Mom introduced us to the brazier, our new boss.
Our little tin cups were happy to be used.

We placed a greasy rosebud in the bellows
and put the bellows in our mouths and squeezed.

A Factory

Every morning is different:
we rub salve on the lesions,
and every evening is different:
we rub salve on the lesions.

We enter the hall and the hall
is mauve like a chubby shoat.
We shower in the basement,
and then we get bedizened.

We are very terrific. Obsidian,
taffeta, lustrous slag. We pour
them all into the alembic, waiting.
We are very terrific at waiting.

Our plangent machines. Our
keys wrapped in plaid. Crisply,
we open the green umbrellas,
position them over our heads.