WORK;

First bite of cold.

Frigid fingers on the metallic work.

Warehouses,

Work on chairs,

Just for officers,

Cold companions pass tubes and plastic parts,

I keep going.

The Radio goes on fighting for the song.

I am close inside the last part of the land and it’s limit,

I am last in the queue,

I have red sufferings of stiffness and black ideas,

That catch at paper,

And collect red tape.

Blue windowsills with a catch of that yellow. Some grey too.

The production line was cracking and I kept going.

White shutters close down the business.

Go home.