Elliott Stead

The Hands That Built Me 

I began as noise.
Hammer-strike gospel,
a cathedral of gears.

Men with surnames the factory mispronounced
tightened my spine into place,
building their tomorrows
one bolt at a time.

The line carried me forward
before I knew what forward meant,
their rent, their children, their hope
hidden in my frame.

Now I idle behind velvet rope,
engine hushed by a century.
The hands that shaped me are dust
but I am still here.