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vernon-waringPoems
Three in the morning, halfway through my shift at a printing plant. I'm tired as always, my mind frazzled, my eyes bleary. I'm creeping through the night as I proofread technical manuals and pharmaceutical ads and brochures aimed at type two diabetics. I'm on life support here, stuck in a depressing gray environment, a vampire on the graveyard shift, the burial ground of too many aging English majors struggling to make a buck while the rest of the world is home asleep, dreaming in color, people whose minds and bodies will forever have a normal relationship with sunlight. As I proofread, I listen to talk radio with its opinionated personalities, irate callers, and nocturnal candor, all of it making those Sinatra-like wee small hours of the morning fly by like a moth rushing toward a bright burning bulb.
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Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
Third Shift
Three in the morning, halfway through my shift at a printing plant. I'm tired as always, my mind frazzled, my eyes bleary. I'm creeping through the night as I proofread technical manuals and pharmaceutical ads and brochures aimed at type two diabetics. I'm on life support here, stuck in a depressing gray environment, a vampire on the graveyard shift, the burial ground of too many aging English majors struggling to make a buck while the rest of the world is home asleep, dreaming in color, people whose minds and bodies will forever have a normal relationship with sunlight. As I proofread, I listen to talk radio with its opinionated personalities, irate callers, and nocturnal candor, all of it making those Sinatra-like wee small hours of the morning fly by like a moth rushing toward a bright burning bulb.
Written by
vernon-waring
72/M
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 11:45 AM UTC
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