written By
in morning light
I load boxes onto a truck
to be delivered to distribution centers
far from here
I do this fifty hours a week
sometimes more
at the same dock
sweating and aching
I don’t make the stuff
I don’t see it in a store
to me it’s all just a box
I’m the veritable cog
without a past
with no future
completely in the moment
the same moment
over and over and over
speaking of work
this is the stuff
my poetry has to work with
if it weren’t that
someone loves me
I’d just be writing boxes
stacked and sealed
freighted to nowhere
