Hitting the day running,
the sun in my eyes and
the cyan blue sky looks unreal.

The church clock chimed eight,
eight
hours too late for the man in
the morning coat
and shiny new shoes.

And in a word you can lose
one third of a day,
eight hours frittered away and the
sun still in my eyes.

The internal clock never ceases
to mock me
whatever I do it is there but
the shock wears away,
and in that third of a day
my life's led astray