By: Dennis Herschbach, Lake County News Chronicle
The roundhouse is there,
a no trespass sign posted
in front of the open doors
rotted to oil-spoiled ground.
Around back, a car shop
slumps next to three stories
of crumbling office brick,
windows punched out
by rocks and time and forget.
Sneak past the faded signs,
past do not enter painted on the wall.
in the dust filled haze imagine
engines belching coal-black clouds,
listen for steam whispering
from smooth sliding pistons.
Visualize workers in grimy coveralls,
try to hear welders curse their fiery toil,
look for flame throwing torches spraying
showers of sparks, cascading galaxies of stars
that die in smoke filled space.
Relive rumors of shutdowns,
the angst of conferences
behind closed doors,
whispers stalking the shops.
Feel the shriek of a whistle
screaming the shift is done,
and know the pain of a pink slip
clipped to a last pay check.