What I Like About Working On Computers In Mid-Twentieth Century England

The noisy chug and churn of the machines,
The methodology,
Moving between the machines,
It is its own dance.

The camaraderie.
We are women in our own dance.
The air is full with the machines.
Full with our bodies,
Our armpits and breasts,
Our steady chug and churn.

Outsiders don't know
They are not involved
in the conversation.
Machine and human.

When I leave,
The work subsides in my interior.
When we return, we once again subside.
Taken up in the punch and clack,
Roaring on.

The machines are kept on
To ensure that they remain stable.
In a sense, it is like part of me is always there.

I go home,
Maybe make myself a rationed dinner,
Maybe tap my fingers on a polished table.
Read the newspaper, drink tea, sleep.