Wednesday, 18 December 2013

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?"
 Of course.

 He smiles,
A light in his,
Then rolls,
 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,

 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,
To the absolute eighties,
And telling him,
I am a writer.

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