Graveyard Shift

His hands are cracked and cut, calloused and covered with bruises and dried blood.

He carefully reaches his hands into his pockets searching for any change
to pay for a meal from the vending machine in the shed.

The old saying "A day late and a dollar too short" comes to mind.

He can't afford the bus fare back home and the expired sandwich; it's too far of a walk through the bad side of town.

His stomach is growling at him,
as is his boss who is half his age.

If only there was a way to get out
of his dead end job
without pulling a trigger,
unsheathing a blade,
or tying a knot in a length of rope
cut from the spool hanging
on the wall.

The bill collectors keep knocking
at his door, as does his landlord.

There is no heat, or electricity in his
mouldy, basement apartment,
just a few candles and cigarettes
that give a small flicker of light
to his poor existence.

Even though his fading life has been built on hardships, he prays, not to a God, no, but to himself to stay sober.

He had a family once, in a life long passed.

Now all he has left
are the fumes
from the furnace.