-Strike, Fall River-

Inside, the mills run cloth
run the cotton through

run the shuttled weave across the looms

the sweltering years of cotton run
the labor and sweat of it

fingertips and needles

and fibers of it
fibers dusting the inside space
pinpricking the working
lungs with its spores, where

bleach like acids
paint the eye-whites red,
bleach which saturates the woof where
outside the strikers gather in their rows
their sleeves rolled-up
their day-dresses sun-brightened
moved by body motion moved by wind where 

everybody’s skinny, the sinew of muscle where

In the distance, scabs go running
fast as lackeys run, fast as finks from the insides run  
where suspenders of fatter men expand

and cigar smoke clings to the walls, where
we admire the outside colors and we assume
that which colors the insides are different.

                          from: "Strike, Fall River"
                          Thomas Hart Benton