Canteen

Fingers grime-glazed gauze once-office hands
– with each wash a layer remains –
the soap, bubbling in the water,
sustains my brain, fanatically cleansing.
Sandwiches in lunchboxes and there’s something wrong.
Vending machine chocolate
lacks the weight-gain threat from exertion.
Vending machine tea
lacks the taste of believability.
Vending machine coffee
fails to arouse caffeinated bursts of exuberance
from the heads resting on the canteen tables,
perched like death on shoulders.

That constant night-shift eminence
– that’s what’s wrong –
lapsing yawns just shrugging those shoulders;
something feels heavy on mine.
The 6-berth table occupied by me
is emphasized by the ricochets from the pool table.
Even the laughter is foreign.
The break shifts switch, chairs clunk and groan,
but I stay, left to my pen and paper,
no-one I understand cares,
even the English speak in tongues.