Hell’s Kitchen

They live in the blank spaces,

In the places between.

Fed on the edges of shattered hope,

The outcast grind onward.

From factory floor, to mine shaft,

The clatter of hammers pounds through the hours.

Quotas were met and blood was shed,

the hours passing in hell’s kitchen.

Slinking home,

Staggering like drunken men.

Among the shanties,

The tenement slums.

The night falls facing up,

Like so many broken bodies,

Into the spaces between.



© Michael Iannucci- Berger


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