Bethlehem Steel 1904 – 2001

The  blonde  coos  to  the  hairy  ape,  “Gorilla  my  dreams.” Their noses almost touch.  While the city sleeps, I-beams on rollers go forward from foundry to muddy pit.  The pigeon alights on stacked girders, warm loaves on a sill.  24 hours before the skin of the metal retracts tight onto its body, 48 stone cold.  Curling tensile strength forever unsprung.  Cranes haul drayage, operator stuck in a cab, kicked sideways, a paper plate in the wind.  Go with the ghost, toggle, breathe.  Eyes closed, he pees in a can.  In a shed flooded with river light, high-iron Mohawk traipses across the catwalk above 34th St. & 5th  Ave., limousines dropping off ladies & gents (hats & gloves) to watch the spectacle of steel.  The dirigible mast goes up, icing on the cake.  Glory days of hard work.  “All things shall pass,” says the pigeon as she shits on the cornerstone.


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