Smithereens Press Chapbooks Left Behind by Colm Scully | Page 9

Ghost

Row upon row of pipe-work flexing muscle,
tendons of the empty factory shell.
Down clean-room corridors in silence,
arteries to the vessels at the heart.
That’s where the boys geared up for night shift,
beard masks and hard hats, acid suit and boots.
That’s where they charged the dark blue glass reactors,
chill in the quiet evenings making cures.
That was the admin block, the empty hallways,
pictures in open offices of kids at home.
The work, the sweat, the energy exuded,
long since deserted desks piled high with books.
The boardroom looks out over a tarnished tank farm,
the cast down eyes of a collapsed venetian blind.

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