Untitled poem, from a class...

Ugh... ;-)

Everywhere I work
has concrete floors
made with sand and lime
spun through metal chambers and
loaded indoors.

This site, too
run by silicon fixers,
where we bake the brains
and wheel on trays
dot-com tickers

We wear blue smocks with
frequency probes
clipped to pockets;
A chip cook's stethoscope.
Green monitor in tow,

that's me, the token white
in a sea of Asian bakers,
hauling boards formatted
by Mexicans, of course.
Born chip tray makers.

There's beet-faced Winh
and James, the kid.
Eddie hits on a
minimum wage momma;
Heads back quick

At six dollars per, Winh runs
On bug-free macros
soddering chips for twelve hours
then drives cabs at night
back in Frisco.

We watch slave laborers snap
Motorolas and AMDs in place
Seated by tongue, rows of dark
hair, older moms, mostly
Olive digits ablaze

At noon Arabs emerge
From back offices in white, all men.
Boss nods at two Mexicans
and reconfigures the boys.
They wash his Benz

Covered in suds, we see them
from our kitchen window
Their Spanish curses drowned
By the blue ovens' hum
Through the roof it flows

Inside these machines, they say
silicon ages like wine
We test for proper waves
on our monitor screens.
eject when ripe

One day Winh disappears
Undetected, until Ahmet
queries, and suddenly
Alarms sound from ovens weary
That flesh forgets

An application failed amid whirring fans
and is sprawled on the concrete floor.
Ahmet checks for a pulse while I
submit to the cur it's
time to abort