The clock coughs up another minute and the day seems to think I should fit right in it, but before seven, eyes closed, I'm outside the entrance to whatever heaven awaits me.
Tuesday.
Just when you get the hang of a day it shifts and again you start floating away, nothing is here to stay everything moves on.
When I grow up I want to be beyond the gawking at page three and you young guys won't realise what I'm talking about,
ha when your eyes are on stalks and your tongue's hanging out that's what I'm talking about.
The clock ticks off another hour monotony, reflections of my potbelly a realisation that I'm getting fat.