Graveyard Shift Poems - Poems about Graveyard Shift

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...

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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...

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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...

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Darkest night and longest hours: Hours to labor and Hours to trip in the primitive ooze of repetition Hours to catch up or trade for spare minutes, Hours with eyes only half aware Of life and its warnings, Lifeless and blissless hours of emptiness, Hours that never end, Hours of yawning and stale coffee, Hours measured in radio songs and cigarettes. Darkest light before the...

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I used to complain about having to work at night on weekends. Everyone was having fun but li'l ol' me. Some years back I had an epiphany on the matter. Suddenly, I had time to cash my check AND pay my bills! Then, I might possibly catch a movie, which has plenty of seating on Monday nights! But my favorite...

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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 ...

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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...

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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...

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