The Report

The window lets in an odd solitary ray of light, Of timid color, a cusp between twilight and night. It lands hesitatingly on the golden tip of my pen, and then blasts into the iris of my eye, half open. Startled, I squint but soon realise its but a reminder, That the affairs of the day, I should soon surrender, And be on my way, to the place I call home, For it'll be a few hours of a tiring roam, Through the gentle gloam before I can see its dome. ‘No, no, it’s too early,’ I grievingly mutter. As I try to gather the notes scattered asunder, From a pale and oft molested whiteboard, To weave them into a crisp, meaningful report. One that I must present in the new-born morn, Not sleepy eyed, to eagle eyed executives of power, Attired smart, in a confident and assured tone, Their queries must I field, without a cower. It had ripped me from my sleep, the phone, With its unrelenting wail at dawn, At it again, with a sweet jingle and a message lone, With goosebumps, on me it does finally dawn, That I will be a prisoner of my chair until dawn. I shake and then scratch my head; i blink and then close my eyes, It’s too much to cram in too short a time, they cry. I slam my fists and then take a deep breath, to let those fumes of anger dissipate, and let my fingers dance on the plastic array of alphabets. At half past ten, with my eyes heavy and swollen, I decide to reclaim what’s left of the day, And be on my way, to the place I call home, For it'll be a few hours of a tiring roam Through the rainy night before I can see its dome. Its half past two, before I hit the bed, With the after taste of a hastily devoured supper, in my mouth, I steal a quick glance at the screen, out of habit, With a frown, I shake and then scratch my head, No revert yet, on the 'urgent' report. Four hours hence, the phone wails again, Jolted from my sleep, I blink and then rub my eyes, ‘Sorry, but could you stop by a bit early?’ he prays, In despair, I rip me from my sleep, to begin yet another day.