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.
Hurray, we’re moving once again.
But metres on, the brake lights flare.
We are not getting anywhere.
I know that was my fatal flaw.
But emails landed: ‘ACTION NOW!’
They foiled my plans to beat the crowd.
that when these blighters hit at 4
I’d toss them in my pending Tray
and finish working for the day.
the ‘URGENT’ knocking at my door.
So here I am, another week
surrounded by the honk and beep
all wishing they were home and free
and sat with feet relieved of shoes,
a juice in hand, or tea or booze
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.
I’m in this metal box to stay.
Just me, the wheel, the brake, the view
of countless others in the queue
into my street, oh bliss! hurrah!
Forget commuters still entrapped,
forget frustration, cause I’m back.
the long commute begins again.
Back into work, the stretching week
can leave me feeling rather bleak.
of queues, delays, the stress, the strife
until I branch out on my own
and change career to work from home.
of ditching my constricting suit.
I know this will not work for some
but oh, for me, my life’s begun.
the fumes, the hassle, bumper fight;
this battle of the daily grind:
the winner’s cup at last is MINE!
© Nicky Clifford 2016