[untitled] morning rant from a forgotten day at the office ten years ago
My hate/hate relationship with waking up early exemplified in this poem/open letter to Kronos the God of Time written circa 2012
Life catches up like that train you know you could have caught but then the world decided you weren't going to get your way. 8:05 as the toast pops & you calculate 8:35 at the station is totally doable as long as the 8:13 bus doesn't stall at that fucking roundabout again & while speed-smearing marmalade you stab through the bread into your palm & Betadine looks worse than blood on a white shirt but it's going to be OK, gauze-wrapped hands or not you're going to find those motherfucking keys. You have a dog, you remember as it begins to yap-yap-yap, trained to find keys but instead eats its own shit with a grin & when you kick it half-seriously you are kicking yourself, kicking yourself in the head to quiet the rising, inexorable tide of an all-too-familiar stress, your daily bread & it’s 8:11 & there's ice on the front step, a streak of blood frosting over from that gash on your knee as you hobble in to that nameless workplace at the perfect time for that co-worker to crack a joke. “Nice one, nameless co-worker, yes, indeed,” you grin a rictus as you flick blood on the back of her dress, a soothing vengeance but no time to savour its cold taste, 20 minutes late & you know this month's bonus is out the window as in comes an E-mail from the now-ex girlfriend like a punch to the gut but you can ride this, saddle the rage & ride it like a one-ton bull trying to gore you through the chest as you grip the rein for dear life to get through the day. Lift your eyes from your soul-crushing number-crunch, lunch still a lifetime away so you bury yourself in the rote until the compacted dirt in your mouth & ears clears & you attempt to eclipse yourself & they hold you back for that birthday at the office you forgot you never cared about, the drinks, chit-chat, that deathwish you carry in your mouth glinting off your canines when you smile, when you crack teeth on the wrong sandwich order & the call comes in: "Mum's not well, you have to come," something-something she crashed the car, panic rising like the inexorable noontime sun until a smiling, apologetic: "false alarm, she's fine, but it’s great you came home for lunch," & when the dust settles & you see them all, the ones you almost lost, you want to cry & instead everything comes out in wonderful, roaring laughter.
How did Bill Murray know your morning face?
Damn this deserves to be published in all the places