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Monday morning just hit me in the face

Like a muddy shovel and just as welcome.

The doleful ringing of the tram bell shakes me

The winos piss soaked is it live or dead corpse wakes me

Child can’t sense the epic struggle going on

Inside me and more often than not externally,

 the exhaustion of maintaining a balance night and day

Work and play

Study think domesticate

Organise not one but three

Suppressing the bubbling creativity

Holding back to let the important things take hold

Important to whom? Not me

But in my role as motherwife it’s like signing a contract

That means my emotional intrinsic creative needs

Are far inferior to the demands of washing cooking ironing organising clarinet lessons.

I’ll get on then. No time for this. No time to stare and think lofty thoughts.

It’s Tuesday tomorrow and he needs clean shorts.



©Poemic 2010 All rights reserved, no publication of this text permitted in any form without express written permission of the author






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