Smokestacks were at every corner
On the Ohio River
Small hands
Small head, leaned against the car window
They are in every night trip
Watching as fluffy white combusting gas floats in such a romantic way
“You make good money down there
I know a guy who can get you in”
Driving past at night
I imagine is the closest image to hell
The refinery is full of tiny yellow light
And orange smog
The white turns to gray
And the switch to darkness really does show its true colors
Trips to West Virginia in the backseat
“If you’re lucky, you’ll get a job in a place like that
One day”
Fear fills my tiny body
Those fluffy white clouds will
Kill me one day I imagine them with legs and arms
Beating me up
Where I’m fragile and tired
All the time
Like other members of my family
Beat down by the assembly lines and tiny yellow dots
The ambient noises and the god-forsaken air
My eyes widen and my heart beat sinks
I say,
“No
I’m a writer”