Tlaloc and the Factory Tenants

Acid rain falls on the old cement factory. Gently at first, yet it grows, pooling above the five by four sheet of glass. Yes, there is a leak, or two. Slight in one’s mind. Heavier in another’s. The buckets set under to catch the drops that collect on the hardwood planks, are really cooking pans. The author’s cooking pans in fact. Water to boil, water to soak, water from Tlaloc. Shuffle the pans from cabinet to floor to stove-top. Same tools, same process, new reflection. And yet the reflection brings change for only a time. A never-ending recycling. Build a construct. Tear it down. Sacrifice and cut out the old. Rebuild, and half-way through, you realize you see the framework from the first construct emerging. It came of its own volition. What would happen if there were no constructs? No urge to rebuild, leaving buildings in tact to bear the elements? Is it even possible? An erie light breaks through to illuminate the factory’s former self. Radiance, sustenance, fertility. But that damn dripping on steal threatens sleep. And still the tenants fear Tlaloc’s demands for sacrifice. What will be put on the alter this time?  -AR