Shut my eyes on Sunday evening. 

Moments pass, the clock is screaming.

Flip my switch from dream to drowning 

in a sea of morning light.

 

Scoop the mucus from my lashes.

Splash my cheeks and scrub my gnashers.

Quell the bloating crush of pressure.

I’m already late!

 

Complacent men and placid women -

TV Breakfast hosts - sit grinning

at the fan-like big hand spinning,

small hand nudging up to 8.

 

Click the kettle, slot the toaster.

Will the grounds to filter faster.

It’s my morning rollercoaster:

15 minutes late!

 

Check email, deplore the headlines.

The sun soars high above the skyline

and my Monday morning deadline

socks me with full weight.

 

Soon the town will be in gridlock

when the school-run convoys back up

but I’m stymied by a padlock

on the passage gate:

 

bloody thing is all corroded

and my fortitude has faded.

Need to get my Transit loaded,

lack the time to calculate 

 

what tools I need, so throw them all in.

Kiss my flask and grab my darling

(got that wrong!) but work is calling.

Time and tide for no man wait.

   

This poem would be a whole lot longer

had I liberty to linger

but who could luxuriate in such languor

when they leave home late?