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Poem

The illusion 

In a small park ringed by gloomy trees near where the factories used to be, was the bust of a man on a splint 
made of bronze, a mesen, she liked to use words like 
that in a desperate world of poverty, tinned sardines
 in olive oil and mackerel in tomato sauce
The Mesen who owned the factories had created this 
park for his workers, where they could sit and relax on Saturday afternoons. 
The whole day on Sundays, otherwise the park shuts 
during weekdays; that made sense, one could not have workers there on days of work
A  boy climbed the fence and drowned in a dam of algae
The park, among damp factory walls, was eradicated.
The foul-smelling factories disappeared as well; the time 
had changed, people could buy cheaper tinned stuff from Portugal  
When pockets of oil deep under the North Sea
 A country was suddenly rich, and people built modern housing where the factories stood.
No one in a town like ours talks about the good old days.

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