at the gate

the angle of sun
at this hour of morning is stiff
with a white
glare.
a steel warmth upon
us as we wait
at the factory gate,
lunch boxes in hand,
our shoulders already
into the positions
we will hold
all day, at
the wheel, the saw,
the drill.
but it's work, it's pay.
there is nobility
in standing
on your feet, using
your hands. providing.
and yet still, we can't
help
but look up at the narrow
windows,
high above the shadows
of dust
and silt that fill the air.
there is a feeling in
all of us,
that there should be more.
there has to be.