GRAY UNDER WAY
I grow paler each day in these blue coveralls,
wasting away behind these cold walls

working well before sunrise, well into the night
sterilized in the wash of a fluorescent light

my hours of rest, which aren’t that often
are spent in a rack the size of a coffin

no bluebird awakens me and sings to me sweetly
just alarm bells and whistles from the heartless 1 MC

too far from familiar friendly devotion,
a dull iron tub tossed about a vast ocean

blind from the grind, a mind half asleep
line up to eat with the rest of the sheep

days loop around on a broken recorder
a flat mix of watches, and cleaning, and orders

but I won’t ever break, or perceptibly bend
for I know this cold time is a means to an end