The Night Shift Epiphany

I am on the night shift,

 With a pleasant fellow called GaRy,

Who can't really hear me.

 GaRy can't hear me,

 But is so much more than deaf -

 As I am so much more,
Than the man told to tap him on the shoulder,

 If the fire alarm goes off,

While sorting letters.

 I'm not sure,

 How to communicate,

 As I don't sign

 And he does,

 Little lip-reading,

 So I tap him, 

Smile and mouth;

 "YOU OK?"

 Theatrically,

 Of course.

 He smiles,

A light in his,

Then rolls,

 His,

 Eyes,

 And nods.

 I'm not sure,

 If he's rolling his eyes at me,

 Or as a gesture,

 Of shared contempt,

 Perhaps for the task,

 In which we are currently,

 Engaged.

 I resolve,

To write a letter,

 Explaining what,

 A Freak,

 He stands next to,

At 4 am,

 In the factory morning,

In the parallel queue,

Explaining about me,

The one tapping him,

 On the elbow,

 And grinning,

While sorting mail,

At 4 am,

Humming,
To the absolute eighties,
And telling him,

I am a writer.