230. MAGDALENE

MAGDALENE

Weavers are at their posts in the gloom;

tending to spools and the layers of fabrics

and cloth. A lone man staggers in, muttering

to himself - something about enforcing the ideas

of true service. He enters the office marked

'Manager' and simply sits down. With an impatient

swoop he picks up the papers upon the desktop,

and walks off.

-

The noise - machinery, cutters, sewing-stations and

balers - is as nearly deafening as can be. Tragically

enforced by their codes of work and their hours,

the women - in a row - are bent over their machines.

At the end of each aisle, a small flame flits from an

open pot.

-

To live such a life is a poor-soul's lot: garment-workers,

peasants, and the childless few still in sorrow over someone

else's death. The streets outside have rows of tenements and

hovels. To each of these women, it will be 1912 forever;

and I want to hug them all - a Magdalene code for the ages.