Beyond the Old, Cold Metal

Across a frozen river sterilized
by industrial pollution,
a row of rusting metal titans 
stands sentinel at water's edge,
their thick, hollow arms rubbing
at roughly bolted elbows,
their bellies silent, dark
of the iron burdens of immigrants.

These black behemoths, mecha-monster 
robots seized motionless in rust,
occult a city at dusk
with their mass, their height.

Higher still, above tuyeres
and empty iron ore buckets,
a city glows on Christmas night,
with white-roofed homes 
like railroad model buildings,
edged in brilliant scarlet, blue,
or multicolored points of light
that wink between the flakes.

Beyond the furnaces, creaking,
reeking of half-burnt coke and coal,
row homes beckon with aromas
of roasted turkey, stuffing,
hot coffee, pumpkin pie.

Past the ice-bound truss works,
the lightless brick-lined ovens
whistling with wind,
softer walls radiate the warmth
of family.

Here, children in flannel pajamas 
tinker with day-old toys,
mothers clean their kitchens,
full-bellied fathers nod off
to the static roar
of football.

Scott Speck
10/13/2003