John D asked:
Still on the Clock
The debris of another wandering day
Washes up on the living room floor
Cushions and toys and bills left to pay
And unread magazines by the score
I start to clean half-heartedly
Time, it seems, outsmarted me.
The thumping and screaming that comes
From upstairs means the kids aren’t asleep
Before me the dishes and flatware and crumbs
Lie un-scrubbed and un-wiped in a heap.
Four hours for home work and ten hours for pay
Still leaves me ten hours at the end of the day
There’s still time for reading and writing to you
A quick note or a poem or reflections in prose
And when my love’s with me there’s time for that, too
But how we got old? Well, now everyone knows.
Two hours for me time, eight hours for sleep
If you wrap it in plastic, I’m sure it will keep.
