It is an old machine that was

New when we pried it cold

From recalcitrant earth

And tried so hard to make it pay

 

Will it pay? The neighbors peer at your iron

Cylinder, rotating with the water wheel

The messenger a wide leather belt

Endless, with a seam to watch fly

 

All worn black castings, rough and fracturing

This was the early machine with an operator

Constantly glancing at the gauge,

Never reading correctly

 

Oats cover the floor, the rafters, your hair

The dust sweet and never settling

Nothing worked.

The only true drawing got wet

And the ink slipped and drew over time

A fresh design that called out for steel.

 

 

©2017   eolon