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.
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