The stroke

Trailers were lining up and yet the daily flow of cases were continuously been pushed to the ramps. In the shouts of the guys calling for the right box at the right place, the scratch of my last match sounded like a stroke and I lighted my last cigarette. Above my head, the yellowish lighting of the place was sinking trucks and crew in a foggy sodium sea. Outside, the busses were quietly rumbling, waiting for the busy roadies. The band bus had already left the place two hours ago. Time to rest, before the next show, far away, tomorrow.