Industrial Estate

Industrial Estate Acres of cars sit silent as cemetery graves In orderly rows, slotted into allotted margins Brutal angular buildings mass Behind razor tipped fences Crepuscular clouds hang in the sky Like dirty, oily rags, on a salmon sea Tankers, palettes, crates and fork lift trucks Like Lego lie across the windswept tarmac Behind floodlit glass, workers sit square eyed Staring at screens. No curtains plants or cushions Soften the scene These workers are anonymous as ants Sealed behind automatic doors, They lose their uniqueness, become corporate entities No longer Bob from flat ten who likes a Friday flutter No more Kayleigh from the scheme, with the poodle cross No longer Frank from the allotments with the pregnant wife The company owns most shares in their waking lives Disposable, dispensable, the company decrees When payroll number 96732 Becomes surplus to current requirements