Slag Piece

Slag piece sat silent as a victorian chimney. Billowing her smoke. Flat, slate grey. Desperate for the rain to weep away her grief stain. Birds, heavy from the dull wit of a creaking morn, throbbed their winged way to the refuge of a telegraph wire to watch the trains plunder the passage ways for people.
Digit counters rise and fall.
Money exchanges hands.
The tax payer prays for the end of the blight but the bitter bile of greed creeps up the throat of the western world. Bush the bogeyman begs for time, worries his scabs like a fetid dog but this time the dog bites back with the stupidity of the n.i.m.b.y.