No alarm needed to remind me
that it's time to go to work.
I tell myself that I am lucky
to have such a good job,
to have held it for 23 years,
that it pays for the things
that feed my soul.
I grieve for having to leave
a tiny elf doll with one leg
and the head missing,
a necklace of crocheted lace
lying half done on the bedside table
and all my lovely plans for
the week-end just passed
only partially complete.
Is it my fault that Friday evening
is so full of promise? I make lists,
expecting to fly through the chores,
not expecting that I will have a
sudden urge to reread The Bean Trees
and spend an hour hunting for
an open toe presser foot (only to
remember that I don't own one).
At work, friends arrive with glum faces,
except for the few we wish to pummel
and punch for their gleeful voices.
There should be a pill, just for
the Monday Morning Back to Work Blues.
I'll take two, please.