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b>Time Management and the Art of Throwing Alarm Clocks
by
Lemuel Griffiths
March, 2,017

Apparently, there's a God damned dog out there - according to my neighbour,
And his wife, Thelma, needs to understand this and know about the mess and understand it's consistency and have this information and keep it and hide it and all five minutes before my alarm goes off.

The trees sway in the distance as I run the water into the kettle - wiping my eyes with a knuckle.
The gulls saw past., thrilled at the the new morn.

In 200 hundred years, they'll all be gone.., and these trees.., and that neighbour and his nemesis and Thelma and the alarm clock and me.

The kettle clicks and the steam rises -
Up and onto the large mirror.., made of sand and heat that the former tenants put on the ceiling. 
I look up..., and down.. we're both amused for a second.., The phone rings.

It flips onto record mode
A voice , a man.., an angry man.
There's an authority in his voice.., like a.., 
Damn it.., my boss.

It's not the weekend anymore.
His weekend, mine.., Thelmas, the dogs
The weekend is unowned now.., by anyone.
Gone, never to return.
The first one of March, never to return.., 
This March, the dead end job.
And all the things come.., right along to pass.

Once in a while.., 
I wish back,
With all my beating heart.., 
For those glorious and golden five minutes of dream and non existence - I lost.., 
Before that Dog damned God. <b

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