Hard to wake up sometimes
on this lost planet, which tosses and turns with you
in your thrashed and shivered sleep,
shrugs its shoulders, changes channels to morning.
Another exciting game of Beat the Clock
sends you crawling to the shower begging
for mercy, a strong cup of coffee, and please!
let there be enough hot water
and an ironed skirt, because one-quarter
of household accidents result from being late for work.

Half an hour until your boss, his enameled hair
recumbent as a lion upon the vast sunstruck plain
of his skull, his shirt whiter than a blank
sheet of paper and starched as a yam,
his great Polaroid eye scanning and snapping and spitting
you out, red-eyed, in need of Visine,
his biscuit-and-gravy belly bumping
into the copier, thereby generating
(innocently and without malice)
two hundred copies of his hit memo
Bathroom Breaks and When to Use Them—

you have half an hour
until your boss happens by your desk
and looks deeply, hopefully, down
the depths of your blouse, whereupon,
seeing nothing but his own reflection again,
retires cheerfully to wait
for tomorrow's installment. And today,
as every day, you wonder
Which came first? The chicken,
or the job?