The Factory Poem by Aron Heroux

The bus drives down a dusty road.
Explosions are muffled
in the distance.
Above, the clouds sit low and heavy,
hugging the cold earth.
Flames lick the horizon, glowing
embers, yellow and red
We travel further down the road where
the sky reflects off two ponds,
side by side.
Towering stacks spew great
billowing sheets of steam, while
Olympic torches blaze a ghostly
yellow-white flame.
A great maze of pipeworks
rise into view, then swallow it.
Thousands of workers rush around,
strangely all their names are Jim.
The bus stops and the man
at the gate asks my name.
I tell him Jim and I pass through.