I wrote this poem a while ago and forgot about it. I think it needs a title and maybe lacks a couple touches of something. Open to all criticism. Thanks.  

Concreteness

A sweet sleep on Monday morning factory floor.

On dozing slabs and slants and little jagged edges,

Crumbling concrete earthen bed,

But such a peaceful sleep.

Safe and secluded, hidden within the ageless achievement of man.

Safe because it slumbers now,

Secluded because the Bacchites care not for concreteness.

So it’s all mine for ten lifetimes.

 

In my dreams I hear the dead foreman’s hollering

Over break-room jesters and machine-gun blasts.

As I wake and run about,

Lungs filled with their grey musty ashes,

I spread arms wide and touch what they touched,

And for a while the dull metal shines.

 

Later, when I turn to go,

They weep from the heavenly gaping roof,

Splintered wood flavoring water like wine,

Filling the bitter imprints of fresh footsteps

And callow searching shoots

Of worthless golden grapevines.

As I turn to sleep again, my poet friends prance about

In distant flowery fields, calling out,

“You can’t make poems from old lead levers.”

I take two breaths and wonder.

If only wine could build bridges.