Thoughts are better off born
Without much thought.
Alarms ring, feet muster the morning
Chill. Beat the clock, steal a glance a second.
Tick and clang reverberates in your brain.
You know the one you put to bed a mere hour
Fast lanes, passing on the right.
Toll cards and frozen elevators.
Forty floors up to boredom.
Could spit fall at such a rate as to break
Apart that ants head?
Hours sloth by with the quickness of sweet Syrup
Poured on a sidewalk at thirty below zero.
That reminds me, the fast lane, passing in the night.
Back to the beginning only to wile away in
The toss across the pillow haze of a mired life.
If there’s more. . .
may I have some?
By: K. Mulroney