Clockpunchers tear bread,
and raise spoons
in break room silence,
chewing frozen
minutes of freedom.

Alone behind the building,
a server holds a cigarette
and the knotted bag of
abusive patrons’ garbage.

The night crew is
always folding,
always stocking
and sneaking chocolate.

Red highway brake lights
in the setting sun—
we are all islands of impatience
adrift in miles of traffic.