Late For Work

The mirror asks him: is his life simple and orderly?

The hansomely man in his suitable suit

Tightens his tie and licks food off his cheek

But deep down he’s not forgotten the wild child

When his imagination was a battery of dreams

Speckled egg shells, laughter in the woods,

Charred leaves ringed shell-holes and secret dug outs

A place to hide from demons and devils lurking

He would save her swinging from tree to tree

Just to impress her, watching from below

Later for an unnamed longing, he felt adoring so

He engraved her name with his pocket

Knife into a tree that grew inside him

He’d still be swinging there now if he could

But he found family, modernity and mayhem

And the mirror still asks: is his life simple and orderly?

And now he’s late for work.

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