To Meet Demand

Infected nails green like moss
struggle with the lock.
Cars line the road behind
the factory where no lights loom
and workers sleep under their coats.
Gravel catches in the wheels
of the machine stopping
it’s progression up the incline,
and smoke dark as crows
plumes from the tailpipe.
It lingers in the sky
blocking the sun.
Undressed woman painted
on the smokestack
power washed off
starting from the face
so for a moment
she is headless
haunting free.
Air burns in the nose
and the calls from the shadow
on the catwalk ten stories up
are all lost in the ring
and the hissing of steam.
No one knows when
they are going home
under the red lights
blinking at the highest spires
of the facility
letting planes know
not to fly to low
and sending lightning
strikes directly
to the ground.