Two joints before first shift,
recovery from last night,
lube the line.
Two joints and a six pack for lunch,
carcass in a sardine can.
Locked out of emotion,
boxed in by screaming yellow lines.
Two six packs
and a handful of joints for dinner,
pummel the dreams…
buying days off from crooked doctors.
Horrified by thirty-year stares of rivetheads,
washed out like dingy jeans
tossed by Goodwill.