Summer Factory

Muggy mornings all too often
drag us out of bed and out the door,
then throw us onto the bus
and drive us to destiny:
allocated time slots in a chaotic world

Cogs in the old machine
wheeling, spinning, moving round
and round and round and round;
the old ones get replaced by
fitter, fresher, younger cogs.

Silence in the smoke room
with the joy of work tacked to the wall,
freezing, wheezing, staring, lifeless;
fifteen minutes of vacant thoughts
away from being a toothless cog.

Printed on the cardboard carton
is an ID number and expiry date,
National Insurance and birth-date death clock:
consumer goods have finite lifetimes
just like the cogs in that machine.