You must be so tired! I know I am, and I'm just the girl who sweeps and mops the floor you stand on while you order your triple grande non fat latte. Awe, you look so cute in your scrubs. There is a point after every one's gone home-- And the supervisor's in the back counting the tills-- I'm talking about 11:15pm--When the Motown cranks up a notch-- magically-- cause we're not allowed to lay a finger on that precious hear music dot com contraption-- When I catch my reflection in the dove grey mop water, and think, well, here we are.
And suddenly it's noon thirty the next day, and my heart is still racing with lines that are dead and gone and buried.
And then it's suddenly five in the noon after. And I just cranked out two two minute plays about something incredibly life alteringlly abstracted.
And at some point I have to read the second half of Beloved.
If only I had a morning. If I could just have an uninterrupted morning. Something with bike paths and turtle doves.
Anyway, I'll stop complaining on account of the emergency siren I just heard mount the driveway of someone I'll never know.
You save, I'll inspire, we'll meet in the middle,
Skin and Toast