I am so very glad that I am lucky enough to no longer be part of the rat-race . . .
It’s here, the dreaded Friday night,
the ‘home for weekend’ weekly fight.
A queue is stretching car by car.
I am not getting very far.
I huff and puff, I count to ten.
Hurray, we’re moving once again.
But metres on, the brake lights flare.
We are not getting anywhere.
I wish I’d left an hour before.
I know that was my fatal flaw.
But emails landed: ‘ACTION NOW!’
They foiled my plans to beat the crowd.
Okay, I know last week I swore
that when these blighters hit at 4
I’d toss them in my pending Tray
and finish working for the day.
But conscience pricked, could not ignore
the ‘URGENT’ knocking at my door.
So here I am, another week
surrounded by the honk and beep
of other drives just like me
all wishing they were home and free
and sat with feet relieved of shoes,
a juice in hand, or tea or booze
or time with kids or takeaway
or down the pub or gym, a play.
To eat a meal when it’s not late
or watch the news at six not eight.
But no, instead, it’s Ground Hog day.
I’m in this metal box to stay.
Just me, the wheel, the brake, the view
of countless others in the queue
until at last I turn my car
into my street, oh bliss! hurrah!
Forget commuters still entrapped,
forget frustration, cause I’m back.
No work for me till Monday when
the long commute begins again.
Back into work, the stretching week
can leave me feeling rather bleak.
The treadmill of commuters’ life,
of queues, delays, the stress, the strife
until I branch out on my own
and change career to work from home.
The pleasure of the lost commute,
of ditching my constricting suit.
I know this will not work for some
but oh, for me, my life’s begun.
I do not miss the daily flight –
the fumes, the hassle, bumper fight;
this battle of the daily grind:
the winner’s cup at last is MINE!
© Nicky Clifford 2016