typewriter

Photo by John Williams (2009)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 





Night Shift

Waiting in the dark
Always waiting.
Always the dark.
The windows in the shelter have gone.
Rain and wind howl through.
I remember hearing somewhere
that way back in the day
the sun shone
and buses ran on time.

I work in the cunny room.
People think itís glamorous
but they donít understand.
I sometimes think it must be like
the job the gynaecologists did
in the old days
when we were flesh.
The most depressing thing
is that we never get to see
the fruits of our labour.

I was only once inside
the Galvanator.
A friend of mine, a gaffer,
snuck me in and I remember
hiding behind a pillar
holding my breath .
There were rows and rows of them.
Packages fully formed
stretching so far back the edges of the plant dissolved.

Everything was hushed
until the galvaniser approached
metal stilts clanking
gliding on vulcanised wheels .
It stopped at the bench below
proboscis dipping.
There was a blue pulse
and I thought I saw the face
of the Ancient
in the smoky cirrus rising up.

The Package looked beautiful
even in rigor.
Like the girl in the fairy tale
sleeping forever until
woken by a kiss.
As the pulse caressed
I saw limbs twitch
a tic appear at the corner of her mouth.
The body rippled
as if an orchestra was playing inside.
She opened her eyes.