From the yellowed front page
She looks at me, mouth a familiar
Hair pinned back, I see her black news print eyes
behind the lens of eighties eyeglasses.
Across the street another emptying factory.
Out of focus skeleton trees.
My mother and her friends
stand with signs and symbolism.
No tools and engine parts, wears a blazer
over oil-stained jeans and steel toed boots.
Faded April in Ashland is always cold but they
stay, protest anyway.
What better thing to do in the afternoon with
my mother’s place on the assembly line
packed up neatly and sent to Mexico.
Today I leaf through her scrapbook,
and on the opposite page is
my mother’s pink slip.
I see her now and we talk
about American cars,
and sometimes she looks beyond me, back
to the chassis line.