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Factory jungle . Right after the seven o'clock break the ropes start shining down,thin light through the factory windows,the sun on its way to the time clock. My veins fill with welding flux-I get that itchy feeling that I don't belong here. I stand behind the biggest press in the plant wating for the parts to drop down into the rack,thinking about what that mad elephant could do to a hand. I'd like to climb one of those ropes of light swing around the plant between presses,welders, assembly lines past the man working the overhead crane everyone looking up,swearing off booze,pills,whatever they think made them see me. I'd shed my boots,coveralls, safety glasses,ear plugs,and fly out the plant gate past the guard post and into the last hour of twilight. The parts are backing up but I don't care I rip open my coveralls and pound my chest trying to raise my voice above the roar of the machines yelling louder than tarzan ever had to.
Need help understanding tthis poem?
Well, the poem is saying that the factory is a "jungle" and the worker who is narrating the poem sounds like he doesn't like the factory and that he wants to escape from work. At least that's how I interpret it.