All night it humps the air. Speechless, the steam rises from the cannery columns. I hear the night bird rave about work or lunch, or sing the swing shift home. I listen, while bodyless uniforms and spinach specked shoes drift in monochrome down the dark moon-possessed streets. Women who smell of whiskey and tomatoes, peach fuzz reddening their lips and eyes— I imagine them not speaking, dumbed by the can’s clamor and drop to the trucks that wait, grunting in their headlights below.
