THE MIDNIGHT MAN

By Steve Gwizdalski

Every third week, he comes around again

When he looks in the mirror, he’s the Midnight Man.

He doesn’t say much – it’s an unwritten rule.

Don’t try an be funny - he won’t suffer a fool.

Bad-mannered, bad-tempered, surly and rude,

Ungrateful, unpolished, cranky and crude.

Snappy and mean, he can change on a dime,

Jokin’ one minute, bite your head off next time.

See, his wife knows the game, but refuses to play.

She tells all the kids, “Just stay outta dad’s way.

You know he’s no fun when he’s working these hours

He doesn’t laugh much, an his mood’s mostly sour.”

Ordinarily, his kids are delightful and darling,

But when he works nights, they’re dreadful and snarling.

Fightin’ an playin’, making all kinds of noise,

Why can’t they sit still, like good girls and boys?

‘I could call off,’ he thinks, but quickly dismisses it

Can’t hold a good job, then be remiss in it.

He could sleep in his own bed, the whole night through

But he knows that won’t happen, that dream won’t come true.

His sleep only comes now, in a fit and a start

Years working shiftwork ruined his sleepchart.

A few hours here, a couple more later on

A swingshifter’s life is sleep on the run.

Another peek in the mirror, can that be right?

Staring back slack-jawed is Boris Karloff Lite.

Eyes fully bagged, sunk deep in his head,

If he lies down now, he’ll sleep like the dead.

Sure, he can nod off, since it’s time to go in

It’s his normal sleep pattern, happens again n’ again.

But he’ll make it, as usual, cash on the line

No sick days on this job, he’ll swipe in on time.

So he brushes his teeth, and washes his face

Yells for more coffee, and gets ready to race

Down the Borman or tollway, which is it tonight?

Which road is the quickest mode to his plight?

Then he fills up his cup – hot, black and strong

Decides on the tollway, and hopes he ain’t wrong.

Steals a hug and a kiss from his kids and his wife,

Then bounds out the back door, for his rite of night-life.

He’s the Midnight Man now, a fresh cup of mud,

A hard-hatted vampire, looking for blood.

And he’ll find some, too, when he pulls in that gate,

Lotsa jobs left over, lying in wait.

He’ll be singeing his nose hairs, and freezing his ass,

Hey, what happened to college? That’s right, he took a pass.

Made pretty good money, when he hired in as a kid

But he got pissed up an blew it, like a lotta guys did.

Can’t hold it against him, he coulda done worse.

Working these midnights, though,

that’s his

wretched

curse.