the factory workers

the shirtwaist
factory workers,
having won
a small raise
in pay, a lessening
of hours, after
bravely striking
for weeks
and weeks.
some imprisoned
or beaten
by police on
the take
go back to work
as almost slaves.
the back door is
locked to keep
thievery at bay,
the small
elevator is
a slow, and impossible
escape.
their fingers
bleed from
the constant
spinning of thread,
in rows at
their machines,
the sharp steel
needles pounding out
a thousand
stitches per
minute, so when
the fire begins
and the smoke rises,
and the hoses don't
reach the sixth
floor, what is
there to say,
as the women float
in their
dresses like
flowers
to the ground,
aflame.