Industry of Rips (a poem)

Industry of Rips (a poem)

Materials unmemorable
Dumped in bags down chutes
That are burnt inside
With rust for insides
Hoisted and bare
For workers to fill
Not repair.
Clothes on conveyors
Lifted to new status
In a sorting floor,
A sort of arena
Where fabric fights
For a chance to show off
On some other parade
Of shops, of streets.

Bins of fibres
Missing threads and pairs
Rubbing no needles together
Only cord tied
Packed and wrapped
For foreigners’ unwrapping
A price set on markets.
Lots of cloth stored
Managed by forklifts,
Operators of ships that carry
Containers of discarded
Money meant for no one
Instead fashion on the backs
Of aspiring workers that dress and wear
Refusing to give in to wearing and tearing.

David A. Church

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