They come home every day and like cattle queue up for position
Empty blank faces look as they do not
See the body standing in front of them
The belly of the beast
Oft told of old, transporting them to the dimly lit
Semblances of normalcy like the others own
But cannot abide to live in
So far from the pasture
The sun hits their faces and they adjust the lens
Covering the black holes with filtered vision
Moving forward as one long snaked appendage
With multiple heads
Mulling over the days between, short flights
Filled full with noises and numbing speed
Racing to another weekend
Of days too close together
A Thought For Every Word
GL Roberts Books 
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