This feels close in spirit to a lot of modern working-class poetry — where transcendence is constantly interrupted by cigarettes, schedules, fatigue, and economic reality.
Author: Matthew Rice
Work: plastic: A Poem
Form: a sequence of clock-time fragments following workers through a shift
“01.29” is just one timestamped section, not a standalone poem originally
01.29
When we look up at stars on break
we see only stars behind
the exhaled Milky Way
of Bobby’s Golden Virginia,
ways to navigate shift patterns,
nothing seismic or anything approaching
truth; for us stars mean only night shift,
insanity of depth,
the slow individual seconds
during which the dotted starlight
doesn’t burn fast enough.
If it felt like it didn’t “resolve” or explain itself, that’s intentional—the whole structure is built around partial moments rather than a single narrative.
