STAYING WAY PAST
The dark blue doors are closed at the warehouse,
where the Spanish guy has hidden his lamps for
tomorrow and gone home. Another day of hours is
over for him. By the ramp, a few cars still await
their drivers. I am incapacitated by nothing.
-
In this dark book where comments are kept, someone
has scrolled what looks like a pelican, or a flamingo -
I can never distinguish those two in my mind - and
written 'late again, fuck', where a delivery comment
should be. I have no idea what that means : but...
-
I am here now for the late-night shift and so I have
to sit and reason. Not with much to do, so I'll
try and think what he could have meant. It won't
be until about 4am that my own delivery-trucks
begin arriving. This dead shift will come alive.
-
Then, of course, it will be my turn to write my notes
in that same ledger book - delivery times and comments,
notes about freight and the handling. I don't know yet what
I'll be writing, but I'm pretty fair-damned sure it won't
be 'late again, fuck,' for that really tells no one
anything at all. But, then again, why defeat the
purpose of an otherwise useless book?
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