"the 12 hour night" by Charles Bukowski

"the 12 hour night" by Charles Bukowski

I found myself in middle age
working a 12 hour night,
night after night,
year after year
and somehow there seemed to be
no way out.

I was drained, empty and so
were my co-workers.
we huddled together
under the whip,
under intolerable conditions,
and many of us were
fearful of being
fired
for there was nothing left
for us.
our bodies were worn,
our spirits whipped.

there was a sense
of unreality.
one becomes so tired one
becomes so dazed,
that there is confusion and
anguish mixed in with the
deadliness.

I think that, too,
kept some of us working there.

12 hour nights.
I can't explain why I
remained.
cowardice, probably.

then one night I stood up
and said,
"I'm finished, I'm leaving
this job now!"

"what? what? what?"
asked my comrades.

"do you know what the
hell you're doing?"

"where will you go?"

"come back!"

"you're crazy! what will
you do?"

I walked down the rows
of them, all those faces.
I walked down the aisle
past rows and rows of
them,
all the faces looking.

"he's crazy!"

then I was in the elevator
riding down.
first floor and out.
I walked into the street,
I walked along the street,
then I turned and looked
at the towering
building, four stories high,
I saw the lights in the
windows,
I felt the presence of
those 3,000 people
in there.

then I turned and walked away
into the night.

and my life was touched by
magic.

and it still
is.