To drill a thousand dripping
On the visor reflects the electrons’ spark
Where the drill hits the steel
Fucking half in the dark.
The hubbub outside, the traffics flow.
In the half-lit sulfur-maimed streetlights
The couple walks a walk; goes where they go.
The pelican with a wide beak that exposes the root
As if to speak, opens, takes the fruit.
“Impersonal worker with expertise, wow!”
The mother passing shows the four-year-maybe son,
My safety gear’s yellow.
On a smooth glass surface, given to the moment
Would the kid watch on; would the mother bellow?
The workyard crows on wires connecting poles;
The containers lined up like in mess, lined for meals.
Yellow ghosts walking home, heads
Hanging down like modest
Statements that flash from threewheels.