Poems / poetry / verse

Early shift.

At ungodly o'clock we shuffle from our beds,
half-hearted somnambulists,
beginning our day before the day begins.
Carrier bags and tupperware,
un-ironed clothes,
un-ironed faces,
tattered queues of sad lions,
roaring silent yawns at the passing cars,
waiting for scraps of meat.

Ambling through the factory gate,
amber slits the horizon,
soon the real people will wake.
Muted greetings at the punch clock,
cigarettes and steaming brews,
backwards perusal of the papers,
sport, then news,
the world might have ended,
but who scored the goal?

Air quivers as mighty motors shudder to life,
We yawn at the machines,
the machines roar back,
they are fed paper,
there's work to be done before we get our meat.
After hours of toil we are thrown our ration,
Ink and bacon,
Offset and HP,
Feed the press as you feed yourself.

Cracked porcelain trophies are held aloft,
In hands stained black by cyan, magenta, yellow.
As tea is supped,
the real people appear,
pinstripes,
leather,
hair gel and car keys,
smooth skin,
bright eyes and plastic good mornings.
The sun has now risen.
The day can begin.