Working till late

I climbed below, to the factory floor; among the rotting pallets and barb wire tumble weeds. The radio’s empty static; clinging to the cool night air; alive yet without voice. And I dragged myself forward, drenched in hour long minutes, that slowly ripped and tug my aching shoulders, my stained sweater causing little worry. yet no pride left for the bones and heart; they are only warmed with tea and heaters. And the endless sorting continues, the machines and bags; both filled with the lucid movements, and thoughts, of those night shift angels.