After a short rest between shifts

The automated beast stirs once more

Yellow tote blood cells circulate

On conveyor veins

Carrying the oxygen orders

To its extremities

The air is filled with the sound

Of its mechanical breath,

A low rumbling whoosh of

Vent nostrils exhaled into the mods

The constant rumble of motors and conveyors,

Movements and laments

Of the small creatures working

Inside of it create its pulse

So it can churn out box after box

From its constant i.v. drip of orders.

There is such a hopelessness

          About mid-winter

That constant gray and cold

                      The sense that the sun is

         Never going to come back

And that pervasive chill that

Gets into your bones,

         Wearing you down

You start to feel like you’re

                    Lost at sea

                            And searching for that

Island of the first bloom

                     Of spring