Eastbound Train

Yo, Miska showed up, twenty minutes late, Boots untied and a half-eaten plate. Sausage in his pocket, ketchup on his chin, Tried to weld a pipe – burned a hole in the bin. Boss lookin’ mad, coworkers pissed, They say, “Miska, man, how you still on the list?” He shrugs, lights a cig in the kitchen again, Blows smoke in the fan like he don’t give a damn. Miska on the docks, makin’ nothin’ work, Screws up jobs, still eats like a Turk. Smokes in the break room, high by noon, Everybody hatin’, but he hums a tune. He hits the porta-potty just to crush a pill, Says it “helps him focus,” but can’t stand still. Dropped a wrench in the sea, twice last week, Still asks for a raise, with sausage in his teeth. Forklift license? Nah, that’s a dream, Drives it in circles like it’s part of a meme. Lunch break? Nah – it’s a smoke and a snort, Miska’s breakin’ rules like it’s a full-time sport. Miska on the docks, makin’ nothin’ work, Screws up jobs, still eats like a Turk. Smokes in the break room, high by noon, Everybody hatin’, but he hums a tune. Nobody talks to him much these days, They just watch him spiral in his foggy haze. Still he’s clockin’ in, day after day, Sausage in hand like it’s part of his pay. Now they whisper, “Why’s he still on the crew?” But Miska just laughs, “I’m union too.” Sweats in the rain, forgets the drill, As long as he’s stoned, man, he feels no chill. Every day’s the same, but he don’t break, He just burns more cigs and steals more cake. And when the ship sails or the scaffold drops, You’ll find Miska stumblin’, still punchin’ clocks. Miska on the docks, makin’ nothin’ work, Screws up jobs, still eats like a Turk. Smokes in the break room, high by noon, Everybody hatin’, but he hums a tune.