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The stars were pouring themselves into the truck. The highway he travelled 1,000 times lay submissive to his speeds. She was passenger-side serene staring out of the window, feeling the open sky as it tried to spill through the cracks and fill the space between. She hadn’t invited it in. Had he? Him with his lit cigarette, lit kept, she knew too well he was never in the habit of invitation while she was a completely different kind of person, a sensitive to sentimental moment, someone who voted Green at the last election, a dreamer with an optimistic disposition. He was nothing like that. It had been three weeks since they’d last seen each other properly.
When he texted and offered the prospect of an expedition, she accepted quickly, they’re at the end of a whirlwind romance, edging further into stability. But he wasn’t what middle class parents wanted for her. You see, she’d fallen in love with a lonely lorry driver, a trucker. Too many massive tyres in his bloods, a carrier of gifts and goods, a go between for the manufacturer and the consumer. The stars were putting themselves in order now, lying on the road to glowing cat eyes and guide them back to their city home. And he had apathy settled in his soul. But she had something she couldn’t stop mentally tripping over. Do you ever consider the impact you have on the current global crisis?
What? I mean, do you ever think about this? This? This lorrying thing, carrying gifts and goods, being a go between, between a manufacturer and the consumer. Don’t you consider where these things may have come from? The warehouse, isn’t it? Sure, yeah, but what about before that? Like, do you know what went into the manufacturing? Why are you asking so many questions? You see, Mr Silence doesn’t seem to think it’s that much of a problem. He’s just another person bent into a cog to suit a system that hasn’t stopped rolling, moving, turning down runways, highways, cross countries and beaches.
And this journey that he’s on isn’t the first step or the last beginning for whatever it is that makes up the things rattling in the crates in the back. And though the name of the concept may not be beyond his grasp, he doesn’t care because cogs don’t have consciousness and he knows how easily he can be replaced. So he just does his job. And she doesn’t like what he does. And she looks more wistful now than ever, staring into every Eddie Stobart truck searching for a face that is as consigned to his fate as her boyfriend is. And he’s just hungry, minding whether to get McDonald’s at the next turnoff, but he knows she won’t be pleased.
No, she fancies herself educated and ethical, poetical fantasies painting the contents in his boxes as something diabolical. But he adores her and she is in love with someone who may not consider where things have come from or where they go to after he’s done the long haul. After he’s got that paper signature, he doesn’t worry. Beyond his charge, he doesn’t think, not because he can’t, but because he doesn’t want to. She tells him this. He goes stiff. She worries that their future doesn’t bode well. On this progression about his apathy and her overzealousness spell collision in slow motion. It’s not my place. But it is.
Sometimes, it’s hard to make the person you love care about the things that mean the most to you and that frustration is building itself into their conversation. You think I’m not doing good. I never said that. I’m delivering what I must, whether that’s books, bottles, boxes, clothes, wood, or medicine. Babe, I’m taking it to the people who want them. Yeah, but what about where they’re coming from? That isn’t anything I can change. Really? Can you honestly not say no to the delivery? What if you knew that the stock has been made by children? What if the medicine is overpriced and privatised so that the poor people in this country die?
What if the wood is from the last tree in Amazonian existence? Would you say no if you knew that your hand was just as bloody because of what you do for a living? And she wishes she didn’t already know the answer. But I’ve got to… got to make the money for us, got to share the golden dreams of captured couples. And you need the things you need and I want to be able to provide. But who are you really providing for? Right now, there’s an island of garbage floating in each continental ocean. And honestly, how many of your products are recyclable and disposable?
And when border patrol won’t let brown people in but will gradually take from sweatshops, that only shows trinkets are more valuable in this country than the actual experiences of refugees. And can you tell me honestly that you don’t need to ensure that your products are free trade? Then hun, in a way, this night ride contributes. Yeah, he said. But so do you. Thank you so much for watching this video. I hope you really enjoyed it. If you did, please consider liking and sharing this video and subscribing to our channel.
This video is just one of five poems that have been written around supply chains to try and educate and inspire people to notice and act on the supply chains that surround their lives. The project as a whole is called ‘My Chain Reaction’ and you can find out more on Crucially, that’s where you can submit your own stories about supply chains and read other people’s. Educate yourself and have a bit of fun while doing it. Check out the other poems and have a good day.
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Supply Chains in Practice: How Things Get to You

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