Back on nights

The chocolate hour is being trudged,
my last sugar boost thrashed
its legs, dangled from lunch box noose
The itchy eyes of 3am have left me
bloodshot and swollen.

The break room zombies talk in moans
afraid that the lights might be too bright
for the gaunt pale pallor of night shift skin,
we huddle in groups, grumpy in the dark.

Stranded sailors sick in their bunks,
groaning on windless seas, no rations left,
too weak to fetch water, barely able to see.

Such dark spells can only be broken if
the Captain kills the witch, with a flick of a switch.
"Come on you lot back to work,
this plant won't run itself ".

My deprived mind wants to rip out his throat,
but I'm just not that kind of zombie, yet.