Hour-Glass Sand 4.24.2009 Poem by Margaret Alice

Late Friday afternoon, work-station
fishes on the window, fleecy blanket
round my knees, I feel about eighty
years old, stranded, abandoned at work,
day grinding to a halt, I’m so far behind,
I’ll never get to die – or at least to take
a free afternoon; but late Friday is not
propitious for repeating routine jobs in
an attempt to lessen the heap of sand to
be moved through the hour-glass before
allowed to make my escape, sighing, I
wish I could find meaning in this - more
than impressing the boss so as not to end
up without a job, I wish I had something
important to do like creating a dream or
saving a life, seeing you…

24 April 2009