Past me they roll,
more and more ever passing me by,
and I wonder why should it be so?
Is it 'cause I'm not ready,
poorly prepared or just too slow?
Or could it be that they have no time to stop and visit,
or could it be that the quota must be met?
I sit and ponder while parts by the thousand pass me by,
for eight long hours in the production line.
This is a poem that I wrote while working at a packing plant for auto parts back in 2000.