I left for work this morning
but never came home.
The man they sent in my place was older,
weaker. He had a scar across his left
cheek and gray splotches in his hair.
When he leaves for work tomorrow,
he too will be driving towards his end.
The man that returns home will be older still.
His eyes will weep pus and blood.
It’s the same each night,
this unflinching process;
like a printer that has run low on toner,
each new copy is paler, each man less distinct,
until the day that nothing