1.

Tucked into rows, the looms sleep silently,

Swept clean, oiled up, bolted to the heavy floor.

An overalled caretaker throws the switch

And pistons wake to pound, leather loops thrum.

A first machine starts the basso kachunk,

Beaters and gears percussively toss and thump.

More looms aggregate to join the choir

of glorious, cacophonous machines.

A troop of kids comes barreling inside

Their parkas hanging loose now in the warmth.

Thrilled by noise and movement, amplified

In their fidgety, dancing twitch, their widened eyes.

Together we marvel at motion, force, the sound;

Witnesses to power’s monotonous throb.

2.

A bus disgorges energetic kids,

Field-tripping to see local history.

A coffee-colored mop-haired, lanky boy

Bouncing on his toes, plows into me.

His ancestors once labored in this mill:

The farm girls, then the Irish, then the Poles,

French-Canadians, Greek, then Portuguese,

Kept separate to prevent collaboration.

This mill produced our cotton tablecloths,

The brown lung of economic independence,

And systemic disempowerment.

Unwitting accomplices in exploitation,

Your grandmothers, they worked these noisy looms

Oh, joyful curly-headed boy, for you.