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…

Unwound clockwork,

buying days off from crooked doctors.

Horrified by thirty-year stares of rivetheads,

washed out like dingy jeans

tossed by Goodwill.