New Occidental Poetry

View from the Mechanical Room

In the midst of the workers’ heart,

which rests, but never sleeps, 

an observer can see the overwatch lights of the city.

They stare in reds and yellows. 

Electronic eyes, inside and out,

but after a certain hour,

there is nothing left to see. 

Only the occasional ant scurries past— 

collar held against the wind

and chin tucked to chest. 

If next to the boiler,

or pressed close to the cold room,

an observer can dream 

about a world without people,

only machines. 

- Benjamin Welton