morning and smokestacks rate

The 56th street bridge
it is an old- over(pass), a word
puzzle long and gray
measuring the limp of industrial
sleep, blue snow falling- fresh
as the corner bar, 20 year old
scotch and white sheet wife beater
blasted in crisp finger
grease, calligraphy spelling out
extinction, and the undeath of youth
the furnace of the hart, smelts
the fearless, and the suicide as one
and on the present bus passing the
demolition of these grandfather
factories i watch empty rail cars, fill
with iron with concrete with the
invisible names and as they leave
the last car is full of the rails
that brought it to this place trying
erase a stubborn ghost from this
graveyard land.