<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Envelope<\/strong><\/p>\n Those soiled rubber bands lay in wait around The machine jams up once more, as the machinist The rest of the faces on the shop-floor remain pensive, And again the cogs begin to turn, my dizziness now <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n
\nmy thinning wrist. They now sag, strained by
\nthe third hour of toil. I await the ever expanding
\npile of envelopes like a convict awaiting the feel
\nof grass under hardened feet.<\/p>\n
\nwipes the sweat from his grit covered brow. I avoid any
\nform of eye contact whilst he mumbles his hangover
\ndrenched soliloquies. My feet slip in the puddles of
\noil that gather at the machine’s rusted feet.<\/p>\n
\nthe skeletal shadows of the iron balcony loom above. It
\nalways threatens to collapse, to finally merge with each body
\nhere within this building’s ever enclosing walls; I stopped
\ncounting any cash I made hours ago.<\/p>\n
\nstable, as the streams of unmatched junk mail once
\nagain start their smirking march across the conveyer
\nbelt. I match numbers to addresses, addresses to numbers,
\nand the clock hands still haven’t moved an inch.<\/p>\n