Rise to the chime.
The bleary eyed shuffle and the morning ablutions.
Take your pills. Dress yourself. Brush your teeth every day. Floss not often enough. The scold of the dental hygienist awaits!
Then to the bus. Then to coffee. Then to my desk.
Computer screen glows from black. The cogs whirr into life. Around me a cacophony of tapping rises.
Good morning. Good morning. Good morning. I say. I am well. How are you? I am good, and you? Verbal tennis, the expectation of politeness.
I stare at rows and columns, words white on black. I sit in rooms and listen and talk and listen and talk. The clock moves in fits and starts. Taunting me for moments, racing through others.
I am working. This is what I do. I am pay my bills. I laugh. I anger. I do. I do not.
Then I am done, outside as the bus sweeps to the kerb, ready to take me home.
I shed my work with each foot fall on pavement, leaving it behind me. I will find it in the morning. Most of it at least.
How is it May?