He lifts boxes day in and out
packs them with Styrofoam
and sends them on their way.
He repeats this over and over and over.
 
He forms a long line, vastly assembled,
as if man is chained to man.  Above the
whir and hum of machines and conveyor
belts he whistles while he works never
looks at the clock for he discerns time
in his mind the seasons become white then
bright and blue. He doesn’t move, he stands
transfixed deftly working at the same swift pace.
He does not ask what goes inside, nor has he
ever looked for that is not his concern, he
just shifts and shuffles on. Maybe in his mind
he is elsewhere, perhaps in a cool mountain
forest or swimming in a moonlit lagoon. 

© Taidgh Lynch

Day 2 | 20 September 2011