I will never work the graveyard shift
Because elementary students are not awake all night.
My charges whom I persuade and uplift.
They bring me all kinds of happiness and light.
My husband worked the graveyard shift
For about a year, once upon a time, many years ago.
We had two small babies, so the real challenge was mine.
Trying to keep them quiet so he could sleep, filled me full of woe.
He would wake up and be nice about it, but it was not ideal.
Working the graveyard shift means your day sleep must be real.
I am so glad those days are over, they were stressful to me.
And to my husband also, as you can plainly see.
ghostly figures dance
diaphanous dresses swirl
in the pale moonlight
it’s the graveyard shift
on the eve of Halloween
we’re in good spirits!
10/10/17
Senryu Contest
Sponsored by Laura Loo
The lighting - it was over-bright
above the table where she lay,
her skin dead cold but lovely white.
The lighting -it was over-bright,
He loved work best alone at night.
With corpses he could have his way.
The lighting - it was over-bright
above the table where she lay.
Written June 19, 2016
Almost awake they come dragging in, at daylight they are zombies ready to leave
Gallons of coffee is never enough,the hour before dawn is the worst
The shift from Hell, could not have a better name
He lounges behind a desk in a late night vacant foyer
Answering calls, making log entries, and filing papers
The dark hours slowly leaking from his tenuous life
The phone rings and he repeats the same weary greeting
He issues information to faceless enquirers
Hanging up, sipping his coffee, he makes notations
Outside, the empty parking lot is speckled with light
Emanating from lonesome uniformly spaced poles
Illuminating the white lines of vacant parking
The sound of rushing steam, clanging metal, and cold rain drops
Echo upon the plate glass windowed empty cocoon
That bares the reflection of his tired, lost in thought face
Anticipating the next abandoned grave yard shift
© Copyrights G. Jones 2008
An angel an evening.
To my counter they come.
I take their money.
They take my time.
The genuine cost lying somewhere between.
An angel an evening.
An art museum.
A zoo.
To look but not touch .
To touch but lack feeling.
An angel an evening.
The rat race slowed for sodas and smokes.
A corner of the world a new nightly.
An angel an evening.
Ever changing drama.
Ever changing insight.
All in the guise of minimum wage.
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