A Refractory Factory

Here’s a world of metal whirring,
though without a creature stirring,
chunk chunk chunk chunk chunk chunk chunk chunk

all its gears and levers grinding,
closing, locking, seeking, finding,
ratch ratch ratch ratch ratch ratch ratch ratch

wheels with ponderous precision,
near but never in collision,
tooth meets tooth in forced elision,
then an instantaneous fission,
click click click click click click click click

gear poles turn and lowly mumble,
motors tumble, rumble, grumble.
rom rom rom rom rom rom rom rom

“Surely” (one might think) “they’ll fumble,
all the pulsing motions stumble?”
hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm hmm

“After all” (with satisfaction)
“flaws will mar the finest action.
Factory rhythm’s no sublime thing,
why should it have perfect timing?”
why why why why why why why why

“Share we all not this desire,
no perfection be entire?”
none none none none none none none none

“Perfect souls are so refractory,
whether lodged in man or factory.”
ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh

“Why should they be always judging,
not allowing any fudging,
see themselves as goddamn heroes,
see the rest of us as zeroes?”
spit spit spit spit spit spit spit spit

“God! I’d love to see them stumble,
learn to be a little humble!”
yes! yes! yes! yes! yes! yes! yes! yes!

Thus the wheels continue turning
while about ourselves we’re learning?
no! no! no! no! no! no! no! no!

For the record: nothing alters.
Nothing in the factory falters.
Still a world of metal whirring,
though without a creature stirring.
chunk chunk chunk chunk chunk chunk chunk chunk