Limbo Poem by Jan Sand

We talk of things
That never happened...
Possibilities of clouds of words
Print in the air in thin letters
Like the legs of spiders.
Here and there
The faintest indication of a color
Floats through.

We do the work we were told to do.
We do not know what we make.
It does not matter.
Tiny fitted intricates
That must have dead precision,
Tight packaged in transparent wrap,
And shipped out.
Some of us make R two threes.
Some of us make K two twos,
Which seem the same, but heavier.
This is the only work we were offered.
The pay is small, but enough
To feed ourselves, our husbands,
And our kids, but not much more.
The trees are green outside.
The sun is yellow.
Outside, birds sail through the air.
The factory has ice-blue tubes of light
That makes our skin look dead.
We can hear our children laugh outside.