or me.
they set their clocks for ungodly
hours.
they pack their lunch
for midnight.
they walk under the moons
glow to work
in singular rounded shadows,
down the empty streets,
bundled
against the cold.
to factories, to stores to
stock shelves,
to bake, to open then
behind them
lock the doors.
they leave their houses
to do things we seldom see
them doing.
so little do we know
how they rise, how they sleep
in sunlight,
do they have
families,
or lovers who wait for
them
in darkness, back home?
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