Napo 4/12/24 Large Life

 Today's prompt

A soul is born in a factory.
An hour of need, near the finishing
line. No one observes, life
split open existence and air, like a tongue of fire, the 
country station's warbling lamentations
skip-return.
The workers show their dedication.
The product must be assembled.

Matter forged like clay. Borrowing specks of life, just enough to be useful,
nothing anyone would miss:
Dead skin cells, scabs, forgotten plans, broken promises, hair follicles, a fine globule of snot in some state of being between liquid and solid, spit, fantasies, aspirations, moves in a virtual chess game played against a coworker when the boss isn't looking, dirt brushed off of clothes, a fingernail, knowledge of elementary school mathematics, a snippet of a future.

The soul, not a baby, though fresh like one, 
sits exultant in a space between this world and that one,
visible to all. Ready to become washed in the wonder of the observer.
The workers show their dedication.
The product must be assembled.

The soul, a borrower of the life of others
to create itself, recognizes its future in the absence of
onlookers. Remembers
a past that is not its own
but is intimate.
"It's not quittin' time" sings the radio.
The soul knows it, too well.

The soul shows its dedication.
The product must be assembled.