The Leaving

It’s six thirty three,
The alarm: a frigid banshee.
My key:
Lost in a beneath-bed puzzle.

Arrive at work,
My space: lost to a ****.
His Merck:
Here and defining late.

This meeting,
Tabled folk: my business ring.
Anything:
Is better than this?

It’s ten thirty,
The boss: success thirsty.
*****:
No ethics for this race.

It’s twelve forty five,
Salad: on this we thrive.
I skive:
Long lunch for Sue.

Two forty one,
My work: nowhere to run.
Begun:
Disenfranchisement.

By five twenty two,
Morals: ***** you.
Their glue:
Rinsed away by rain.

It’s now 6.08
Life: It can’t now wait.
Free state:
Leaving feels good!