The Late Shift

It’s a rhythmic thud against the plastic tray,

a mechanical heartbeat in a room of dead air.

Fifty pages of data, all stark and gray,

sliding out while I sit and I stare.

The paper is warm when I pick up the stack,

a feverish heat that doesn't belong to me.

I want to move, but my knees have gone slack

under the weight of all this industry.

The machine hums a low, grinding song.

It knows its purpose; it knows its place.

I’ve been sitting here for far too long

with a blank, white look on my face.