The smell of hydraulic fluid,
the lathe spitting shrapnel,
tiny bits of razor-sharp silver
on a blackened concrete floor,
a shower of fire bouncing off steel,
men in large black masks,
red tool boxes the size of refrigerators,
and my father,
hidden somewhere in the maze
of towering metal creations,
the only clean thing in sight.

He sees me in the middle,
pink bows, long hair, and bare feet,
and stops.
“Hi, Daddy.  It’s lunchtime.”
He nods, puts a finger in the air,
and turns back to the man next to him,
who just crawled out from underneath
the steel beast beside me.
The cutting sounds,
the piercing high-pitched squeal
of blades on metal,
keep me from hearing them.

They each nod
and his large strides head my way.
He gets close and squats down next to me,
whispers loudly the thing he always says.
Watch my eyes.
Watch my feet.
Be careful—
this place was not built
for little girls.