The harsh screech of the waking machine pushes the winter sunlight into my slumber
Hot water washes away resentment of broken dreams while the plans of the day drift into focus
The roar, the chill, the power and the dance is the ride, are the best part of the day
Before the drudge and stress and futility and service are the day, is the rest of the day.
But the power wobbled. And fell over. Again and again until the insult broke my machine. My one machine.
It'll be busier tomorrow, but today will be fun. Power wobbled. Like a holiday, but different.
No comments:
Post a Comment