the store bought cake

there's the day

job,

the coat and tie,

the cubicle, the coffee,

the chit chat around

the water cooler.

the mundane work,

more coal

from the mountain.

you shovel ahead,

then lunch,

maybe

a store bought cake

for a birthday. the signed

card, the song.

nine to five.

maybe a drink or two,

or three

at happy hour

to gripe and complain

about the boss,

about life,

about the husband,

the wife,

then the drive home.

loosening

the tie,

stopping on the way

for food

through a drive-thru.

home at last to walk

the dog, collect

the mail,

shower,

sit in front of the tv

for a few hours,

with a drink and bag

of pretzels, the remote held

tightly in

your hand, the cell phone

in the other,

then to bed. to bed.

tomorrow is an early

day.