MARK O’FLYNN

Vespiary

In this yellow room above the factory floor

the chatter of sewing machines

fills the air like summer cicadas. Music

from a tinny radio, and the voices

of men making money, making clothes,

making the most of their timeless time.

It’s a pittance, how little will keep

a man alive – a phone call, a pouch

of tobacco – how little will define

the man as human – a voice, an answer

to a name. The gaol factory below

buzzes with industry,

there is even laughter

that is otherwise punishment.

Sometimes the air is physical.

The sunlit day beyond assaults the retinas

of all who emerge from the gloom.

The sewing machines silent

in windowless midnight.

Shadows between piles of cotton

containing no ghosts, no ordinary evil

than is otherwise humming in my head.

My footsteps, too, squeak on the floor.