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.


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