We own the night streets.
Once the stores close,
we find ourselves staring down
the tenebrous highway, occupied by only streetlights
that fly by our peripherals like birds.
We haven't seen birds in awhile.
The only glimpse of sunlight you get is the day poking
through our blinds as we sleep.
The sound of children playing on the street-
is no longer a sound that brings lightness to the heart.
It pulls from our troubled sleep, and we simply smother our faces into the sheets that we need to be washed.
The smell of oil can easily be washed out of clothes,
but, it lingers on the skin, seeping into our being.
Our identity is slowly being crushed by work.
Dust collect on books, video games, CDs, instruments-
which sit not unforgotten but neglected.
There is never enough time for a meal.
We line our bellies with granola bars, frozen food and coffee-
yet, food surrounds us at work.
The smell permeates the air while
hands tremble and rolls of nausea make us weak.
Sometimes, a primal anger slips by,
an indignant anger that wonders how life could be so meaningless yet joyless?
Our ancestors sat in fields, contemplating clouds as they drifted across a great blue sky.
Outside windows, the evening sky speaks to us,
resonating more than a manager's words ever could.
