Industrial Estate Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Industrial Estate
Acres of cars sit silent as cemetery graves
In orderly rows, slotted into allotted margins

Brutal angular buildings mass
Behind razor tipped fences

Crepuscular clouds hang in the sky
Like dirty, oily rags, on a salmon sea

Tankers, palettes, crates and fork lift trucks
Like Lego lie across the windswept tarmac

Behind floodlit glass, workers sit square eyed
Staring at screens. No curtains plants or cushions
Soften the scene

These workers are anonymous as ants
Sealed behind automatic doors,
They lose their uniqueness, become corporate entities

No longer Bob from flat ten who likes a Friday flutter
No more Kayleigh from the scheme, with the poodle cross
No longer Frank from the allotments with the pregnant wife

The company owns most shares in their waking lives
Disposable, dispensable, the company decrees
When payroll number 96732
Becomes surplus to current requirements