The fridges in a line, their backs against the wall, test tags in date... probably.
They shudder in sync, making their contents jiggle just a bit.

Microwaves with coffee stains, you don't cook tuna in the crib room.

Baby packets of coffee and sugar, paddle pop sticks for a stirrer.

Food and sweat, cooked and fresh. The packs shuffle in, looking for phone charging points.

The scaffies play music, louder than they should, but the music is usually good... except when it's not.

Truckies boisterous, forked tongue, consume vendo pies, dead horse and a Coke on the side.

The pretty sentries, with eyelashes bolted on, stop to take selfies and add to their online stories.

Bosses stroll in, obligatory shoulder pats and one liners, confident and all knowing.

Cranies slow, but they know where to go, pre-packed, brown bag smoko.

Cheeky games of poker, money sorted later, boredom and sleepers, old school and keepers, green hats and newbies, fuckwits and legends... all gather, to the crib room, as if on queue.

For a feed, a graze, a nibble, a chew...

Cos a 12 hour shift is a fukn hard slog.

We grind the day, we achieve and fail,
Every day the same ****, but it's not,
Mornin old mate, lets go **** **** up
We'll catch up again during smoko.