The collection point, slouching over
monochrome monitor, picking notes.

Waiting, waiting, waiting for
an eager assembler’s name to flash.
To the warehouse boys shout the order.
Watch them rise from the turned over crates.
Wipe chicken grease on rough blue fabric.

Their strong arms and fat bottoms shuffled
on picking trucks with hydraulic forks,
bringing pallets down; cleave plastic film.

Even subject to their gassy jokes,
better than staring for the whole shift,
gormless and idle at the glass doors.

Waiting, waiting, waiting for
the punters who worked out that loose wood
did not transform their lives or give them
any new meaning & looked quite shite.

The boredom so pervasive during
six hours on Sunday with nothing but

waiting, waiting, waiting for
green text on black screen whispers mischief,
gave in to the devilish boy who
wrote a dirty message to the lads,
who were grown with families and bills,
a message printed on picking notes,
a customer almost, almost saw.

The men perhaps no choice but report,
the manager’s disappointment showed.
Gave a speech about how I might feel,

waiting, waiting, waiting for
before escape this suburban hole.
Could barely hide from him my smug smile
when he revealed the joke’s forfeit was
no more idle staring at glass doors

Waiting, waiting, waiting for
dusty screens, but to the back go.
To rummage stands and bins for what
trash the people wanted us to bring.