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Daily

I woke at six for work at six thirty —
God, these early hours hurt me.
My house-mate grabbed the shower first,
But I had no time to quench my thirst
And feed my need for caffeine.

So I stood dressing-gowned awaiting access
For ten minutes cold and tired,
Oh, for a silver spoon and to lack less
And to got to work truly inspired;
But that idea seems somehow obscene.

On my bike, down the road up the hill,
Past cars that could easily kill
An annoying cyclist on an early morning road,
How do the omens in the dark sky bode?
Is today a day for boredom like it’s sometimes been?

Cleaning up, at one with the broom;
Tasting the swept muck’s an intimation of doom —
And here we go once more round the room,
Backwards, forwards: shuttle on a loom.
Knitting something mute unseen.

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