Monday Mornings

Feel like eggs that scramble
Too quickly
On a pan that’s too hot
And a tad too small,
Making for a hurried, burnt meal
That could have been
A lot better.
The minutes between
Waking up
And leaving the house
Run surprising quickly
Like a mischievous toddler
In a grocery store.
The sleep never feels
Like it’s good enough
And the feeling of the weekend
Seems to linger like
It hasn’t quite finished happening yet.
That quintessential Monday morning
When bucket loads of life
Seem to be crammed
Into teacups of time,
Often a blur
Often a mystery
Making me wonder
Just how I made it to lunch
Intact.

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