11:15 am »

The Cherry Factory

By Hannah Richards

In Norfolk County, the cherry trees grow

Field upon field, row upon row

The fruit smells sweet, but the job is sour

Standing, waiting, nine-fifty an hour.

Bucket after bucket, thirty pounds each

My mind aloof, with thoughts of the beach.

FROZEN SOUR (TART) CHERRIES

FROZEN SOUR (TART) CHERRIES

With no days off, for three weeks straight

My frustration grows with every missed date.

Instead, my time is spent on the line

Wishing, hoping, for something sublime.

The foreman passes with an unwinking stare

And forklifts sound off with obnoxious flare.

FROZEN SOUR (TART) CHERRIES

FROZEN SOUR (TART) CHERRIES

The label machine stinks of gas and ink,

Dizzying, foul, it makes my heart sink;

To think, I watch thousands of buckets a day

Passing me by, with mind numbing dismay.

Malfunction causes social interaction:

Blow the whistle! Get the boss! Pray for a decent reaction.

FROZEN SOUR (TART) CHERRIES

FROZEN SOUR (TART) CHERRIES

In solitude time passes by slow

With nobody to talk to, and nowhere to go.

Water on the floor makes my boots rot

Getting out of here is my happiest thought.

Once queen of the sun, now consumed by cement,

My new persona, the lead malcontent.

FROZEN SOUR (TART) CHERRIES

FROZEN SOUR (TART) CHERRIES

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