by Ian Hart

Groaning doors resonate in my mind.

I can heaaaaar

The unoiled machine,

Creaaaaak.

The gears grind,

But they never cease.

They turn despite their cries to stop.

The oil is on back order

And management claims they ordered more weeks ago.

My sixteen-hour shift is coming

To a close.

I heard the bell ring hours ago,

But I push through.

I decide another two hours overtime

“must” be the best choice.

I don’t have a reason or a rhyme,

I guess I just like overtime?

I finally clock out,

But when did I leave?

Two?

Three?

Doesn’t matter to my machine.