Porridge

Thoughts are better off born without much thought.
Alarms ring, feet muster the morning chill.
Beat the clock, steal a glance a second.
Tick and clang reverberates your brain.
You know the one you put to bed a mere hour ago.

Fast lanes passing on the right.
Toll cards and frozen elevators.
Forty floors up to boredom.
Could spit fall at such a rate as to break
apart the ants head?

Hour’s sloth by with the quickness of sweet Syrup,
poured on a sidewalk at thirty below zero.
Below zero.
That reminds me.
The fast lane, passing in the night.
Back to the beginning, only to waste away in the
toss across the pillowed haze of a mired life.
If there’s more. . .

Please Sir,
may I have some?

By: K. Mulroney