Inside grey cold aluminum booth
sits ground dust covered
numbered and forgotten
human flesh blood machine.
Mumbles half tunes of forgotten melodies
to snake hiss beat of grindstones smoothing plastic
at $1/2.1/41/4 an hour plus overtime and a half.
Dreams of running moonshine on Georgia coast-
illegal adventure stealing across fog moon highways
with saucy plump harlot
waiting silently in early morning hours.
Cursing eight to five six days a week
with exhaustion strain at end
of another day – week – month – year.
Plans only memory hopes
once visited in flesh papered bookstores
and small motel lobbies on two week paid vacation.
Talks nonsense with black plastic tubes
as three day beard growth hides
itchy fiberglass infected face.
Dozes from boredom into a phantom trance
questioning survival until social security salvation:
then awakes to supervisor bringing more plastic.
