brass

[abby]

We sweat through our small movement
in the cool air and our wool sweaters.
My grandfather notes our stations,
nods imperceptibly,
for he has been dead years now.
I listen to the crash of a thousand pounds of brass
arranging itself at the end of its fall into tin drums.
Tomorrow, or another day just like it,
all of this will be carted away.
When no longer ours,
it will be melted but not beyond recognition.
We will walk away
with as many thousands of dollars
as pounds of the stuff we have brought.
(My country is at war.
The price of brass is high.)

I watch my hands as they unwrap each piece,
graying as they go.
I do not hesitate, do not feel any of it as
it passes through my hands.
I think of the bullets my work is urging,
and the Iraqi boy
who will stagger at the bullet's approach.

Oh, grandfather!

------------

I wrote this recently and can't get it right. Brought is just a word I placed as I typed it here. I'd left it blank because I couldn't think of the verb. Do you have any idea what I'm writing about?

Abby

[lizzytysh]

Hi Abby ~

I know that jewelers are buying up gold and my neighbour came and asked if he could take some metal stuff to sell. This may be what's happening now, as a result of our being overextended because of the Iraq War.

Unless I'm reading these lines incorrectly, these seem to explain to me what you're saying:

I think of the bullets my work is urging,
and the Iraqi boy
who will stagger at the bullet's approach.

Oh, grandfather!

~ Lizzy

[mat james]

There is power in this poem abby.
It's a good mind that considers about these issues.
And what is good and what is bad?
And so it goes on....

Matj