The clock coughs up another minute and the day seems to think I should fit right in it,
but before seven, eyes closed, I’m outside the entrance to whatever heaven awaits me.
Just when you get the hang of a day
it shifts and again you start floating away,
nothing is here to stay
everything moves on.
When I grow up I want to be
beyond the gawking at page three
and you young guys
what I’m talking about,
when your eyes are on stalks and
your tongue’s hanging out
that’s what I’m talking about.
The clock ticks off another hour
reflections of my potbelly
a realisation that
I’m getting fat.
© 2020, John Smallshaw.