A Man In The Servo

His weeks are fueled by coffee and confectionery Reading news at his fingertips that he'll soon forget His setting is flat just like the dreams That were run over in the flyover pass Yellow and cold like dead grass Exiled from the steel jungle and trapped in a tiny dot What's left of him tears at the seams And lets the problems come and amass Like sand fall on an hourglass. He used to hate the emptiness of his full-time job But each day he feels more akin to the desert's void And the clouds that swirl like delicious cream Clear his mind like polishing rust from a brass Yearning to know what lies beyond this landmass After a while, he left the servo without warning His will restored and full to the brim It was the ending to a long-winded boring class Away from the station with his tank full of gas