Night Shift at the Heart

When daylight clocks out, worries badge in.

I punch the timecard under my skin.

The factory hum of breath begins.

And I run the night shift—repairs and spins.

✦

My ribs are windows with sodium glow.

A warehouse of feelings stacked row by row.

I mop up the leak where old promises flow.

And oil the hinges of yes and no.

✦

The foreman is quiet; the crew is made of scars.

They move like constellations, box-lifting stars.

They inventory thunder in unlabeled jars.

Then sweep up the glass from yesterday’s wars.

✦

A coffee of courage, black, on the cart—

I tune the gauges of panic and smart.

I tighten the bolts between mind and part,

and reset the meters that guard my heart.

✦

Alarms like sparrows peck at the pane,

I tap the dial—“it’s only rain.”

I loosen the tourniquet tied to my name,

and stitch up the place where leaving left flame.

✦

The city outside is a patient machine.

It's the pistons of taxis, a tired routine.

But here in the boiler of red and unseen,

I calibrate Mercy to run clean.

✦

By 3 A.M., the belts run true;

The valves stop coughing a rusted blue.

I sand down a splinter of “what did I do?”

and label a shelf for starting new.

✦

Dawn signs the logbook in milk and gold.

The sirens go soft; the rumors grow old.

I hang up my gloves on a warm, steady hold—

another night’s maintenance, bravely told.