Means Of Production

Not today

Wheels turned slowly in the great
factory that was her mind.
Machines stood still.
Doors once open were closed
Windows through which the sun had shone and bird song filtered in
were grubby.
Workshops were airless
and the means of producing lucid thoughts had rusted along with the engines and looms.

Quite simply there were no more parts and
In truth the factory should have long since closed.
The sign was still there
but the cluttered space was empty of all but memories
and even those held no guarantee of truth.

She sighed and tried to recall who had put the mug of tea in her hand
But it was all too much.
Looking back,
listening to the music of the machines that still whirred in her brain
was the only comfort
and even that was fleeting
Where were the fabrics?
Where were the needle girls?
Where was she?

"Hello Mother"
her son breezed in
"Day dreaming again?"
She smiled
These reps who came to see her were so patronising...
Still, she'd string them along
and then politely say
No thank you
Not today.