In the hush of a half-lit warehouse, they labor—
Technicians with furrowed brows,
Threading wire like veins through steel ribs.
Each motion, careful, deliberate,
Drills whirring, instructions barked.
Fluorescent lights hum above—
a lullaby stripped of soul—
oscillating over tired shoulders.
Squeaky carts meander down narrow lanes,
the thud of unbalanced wheels
joining the mechanical chorus.
Panels become puzzles solved in silence,
hammer strikes echo like distant heartbeats
in the chests of waiting machines.
Minds synchronized with metal,
we labor until day’s end.
The lights hum their exhausted melody
until they’re silenced—and tomorrow begins again.
Punch clocks tally dreams deferred.
We leave with loose change in our pockets
and a debt to our own days.