Waking at three a.m. for work I do so into silence.
The highway drags are not ready to relinquish
their nightdreams of apocalypse and the etiquettes
of existence merely suggestions rising between sleeps.
Arriving to sell my sinew for salary, I unload
trucks of crafting supplies despite timekeepers
existing both as my foreman and competitor.
My miniature frame stacks boxes
three stories high and I climb them,
unafraid or simply dreaming
of plotted insurrection utilizing
weapons of mass production.
At six a.m. the store games begin,
a mixture of baseball and curling,
orchestras of breakable commodities
turned into balls and frisbees.
And if they broke who would know?
Surely us damned ghosts wouldn’t tell.
Us walking machines responsible for
old ladies’ yarn appearing on shelves
night in, day out, the products only there
because we willed it, deciding bread for our
families more important than revolution ideals.
We watch the company’s fake security doors deter
community communion for those without credit,
step into work each day more communist than the last.
But specters paid eight an hour do not mind much if
someone seizes and relocates from the craft store
their own means of creation.
Casey Aimer holds a bachelor's in creative writing from Texas A&M and is currently an MFA candidate in poetry at Texas State University. He advocates for radical thoughts and honest questions expressed in unconventional styles.
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