The Night Shift

The Night Shift

The security guard counts sheep

that leak from broken televisions,

each one wearing 

tiny name tags

like refugees from someone else's sleep.

His torch illuminates the ghosts of photocopiers

printing blank confessions

whilst the coffee machine

dispenses liquid regret

drop

by measured

drop.

At 3am,

the filing cabinets

begin their migration

towards the windows,

their metal drawers clicking

like arthritic fingers

spelling out morse code apologies.

He writes his incident reports

on paper made from compressed whispers,

documenting how the pot plants

grow backwards into their seeds

when no one's watching.

The cleaners arrive at dawn

mopping up the puddles

where yesterday evaporated,

their vacuum cleaners

swallowing the leftover echoes

of conversations that 

never happened.