Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Overtime




You almost wouldn’t see him there,
bent as he is to his gray screen
in his gray office, gray hair.
No cloak cowls the bony mien,

spine a scythe, saint slim,
he sits in the chill, Hertzian hum
mousing scrim after scrim
from screen to ether. Humdrum.

At his back, beyond his blinds,
his half-acre of smoked pane,
even the confirmed grinds
douse their lights, catch a train,

but the lord of the graveyard shift
is too preoccupied to look:
he’s locked to his phosphors, ten swift
digits ticking his power book,

dividing a twinned infinity of thens
by the absolute value of now,
scrolling an endless skein of whens
past his pale, translucent brow.

1 comment:

Minx said...

Tell me about it - oh yes, you did.
Back from holiday this week I have been chasing me tail to catch up - I have nearly earned another holiday, and the whole process will start again.
Thank you for reminding me, Carver, why I work to live and not the other way round.