5:56… 6… 6…
5:57… 7… 7…
5:58… 5:59… 6am.
The alarm blares. Dan get’s up. Combs his hair; a sharped dressed fella to catch the train. No time for an umbrella despite the rain. Clock-in at work. Earn that 401k.
Collapse into bed after a long hard day.
5:56… 6… 6…
5:57… 7… 7…
5:58… 5:59… UP! UP! UP! Time to get UP!
The alarm blares. He combs his hair. Smokes a cig. Wolfs his breakfast down. Come on over and see Dan’s gig,
the most established trapeze artist in town. Today’s act includes remembering his son’s soccer practice — gotta make up for the ones he missed. Maybe make his daughter’s recital too, he’ll hope, but nope! Only one will do. Collapse into bed. The day is through.
5:58… 8… 8…
5:59… 9… 9…
6am.
No alarm this morn’s heard;
Sally’s been up all night.
She does another bump
To feel a sense of norm.
To deal with the absurd
Demands of the Red-Light
District and her strict pimp
who’ll be by this afternoon,
So she better get that bread -
Or she’d be better off dead -
And get it soon!
5:58… 8… 8…
5:59… 9…—- or does that 9 still look like an 8? Oh wait, now it’s 6pm. -
The only alarm’s raised
By Chuck’s poor liver;
His eyes’re glazed and sunk in their sockets, his fork hardly touching his pork
as he sips a pint from his pocket
Down at the local diner.
Drunken Chuck’s
Been down-on-his-luck
But, never much of a whiner,
Hasn’t told a soul yet
He was laid-off last week.
Another shot, another shot, another shot
To forget. To hell with his mortgage.
To hell with his marriage. The future’s lookin’ bleak. Where’s my revolver, he thinks.
I need a SHOT.
Commercials in time’s
Our sad, sad comedy,
We troupe of mimes
Tired of the main program’s
Sodomy.
Soon its curtains fall,
And wiping paint off our face,
We’ll forget our shtick and all
For Death’s cold embrace.