🎶 Overtime 🏭💔

(Industrial blues • 66 bpm • B-minor funeral hum • máquinas como bateria • voz soldada ao metal)

1

The alarm coughs 4:03 a.m. ⏰

I solder my name to the time-sheet 🧾

It doesn’t take 🔥

Foreman says the dark is overtime 🌑

I sign anyway—ink bleeds backwards 🖊️

Spells my father’s SS number in the margin 🪪

2

Bolt 17-A wants to be a vertebra 🔩

I torque it until it screams uncle 😵

Each rotation peels a syllable off my kid’s first word 👶

By lunch he’s mute again 🤐

Factory lights hum in B-minor 💡

The key of every funeral I wasn’t excused from ⚰️

3

Break whistle: fifty-eight seconds 🔔

I swallow a sandwich of dust and forecast 🥪

Taste the roof my brother never finished 🏠

The vending machine births a Coke 🥤

It comes out clear—carbonated absence 💧

I drink, burp, and the echo clocks in for second shift 📡

4

Quarter-mile of fluorescent corridor 💡

I carry a bucket of screws like loose teeth 🪣🦷

They clack the national anthem in morse:

dot-dot-short-circuit-dot ⚡

I march, but the floor is a treadmill of yesterdays 🏃‍♂️

Each step cancels the one before 🔄

5

Final bell: the sound of a passport shredding 🔔📄

I clock out; the machine keeps my face for collateral 🖼️

Walking home, streetlights flicker in binary:

01001000 01000101 01001100 01010000 💡

Nobody translates 🚫

At the doorstep I pat my pockets—

keys, wallet, and a new silence 🔑👛

Shaped exactly like my unborn daughter’s first cry 👶

6

I sit on the couch 🛋️

TV snow reconstructs my silhouette 📺

Between two frozen frames 🖼️

I see the assembly line still moving 🏭

Building another me head-to-toe in reverse 🔄

Heart last, so it can break without slowing production 💔

7

Credits roll over the inside of my eyelids 👁️

I try to blink; supply chain delays ⏳

Somewhere a foreman whistles the melody 🎶

I thought I was humming

The lights go out 💡

But the dark is already on overtime 🌑

It signs my name ✍️

And the shift never ends 🕰️