Civilization and its Discontents

Written upon turning his poem sideways.

I look across the skyline
of someone else's words:
smokestack fingers reaching
for something;
(Fame?
Freedom?
Food on the table?

Or are they simply
an extension of self,
unselfish; stretching here
to feel out their length,
breadth?)

I wonder if there
are children in the factories,
their innocence tarnished
in the soot of progress.