The Honest Day's Work

[EtH]

My wife stirs left and right as she sleeps on my arm,
Awoken, ignoring my attention seeking alarm,
A sharp ring that would sting even the hardest of hearing,
The snooze button an apple in the Garden of Eden,
My uniform rests on the dresser with the neatest folds,
Watching teleshopping while scoffing down my tea and toast,
No exactly a breakfast tailor made for kings,
My day starting even earlier than daylight’s is,
Drive, dragging behind me the heaviest eyes,
Park the car and clock in when I arrive,
The boxes are loaded, to the streets I head,
As the sun now begins to pick up its weary head,
Each package delivered by an ordered list,
As moisture lays itself down on the morning mist,
The road at this time; the most deserted of places,
Anticipating the masses which will tread on its faces,
Soon people appear, and the numbers will double,
So the road rests and waits for the hustle and bustle,
Work stands like a wall, when each minute elapses,
It starts representing another brick that collapses,
And when work is done, and when we’re going to bed,
We close our eyes knowing it’s going to start over again.