Evening Shift

Same groan, same barren manager,

He runs the evening shift –

eye-ing all the moneyed girls

as I lurk in the larder

while cabbages hiss.

High on fumes of Ancient Strife,

who knocked the plate, whose stew is this?

Who lingers out there, hidden in the mist of withered birds?

Oh you again – stuffing your face, get on the bloody floor!


All Talk from the Half Dead at Table Three

So what do you do when you’re not a waitress

Shouldn’t you have a degree?

English I remotely sigh- (not

All it’s really deemed to be

At home Mum proudly bears the scroll

BA- In Utter Misery

Tears, annihilation of wildest dreams

Sublunary faces weary with pretense

Mooning at the Years Gone By

as Insight briskly Upped and Left

Indifferent to a world beyond cheap nights,

The universe itself)


Heavy, they head to sterile homes,

We close, we bend we bed and we repeat.

Preparing for the gloom of Sunday

Fatigue and smothered with defeat



Here’s to the

Down & Out slave to minimum wage

Ill at ease, nothing but

Flotsam- reign her back in

She’s drowning in a sea of discontent

lonely night shifts with only the kitchen porter for comfort

Who lulls her into nothingness, as he struggles to convey his

Disappointment, his shattered visions of England

His little bedsit, and noisy tart next door

His weariness, disgust at dirty plates

His eternal gaze at fuzzy March rain

Wondering if he can die beneath the dishwasher


Begin all over again.


By S.E. Hay


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