This is not what Friday was meant to be;
events conspire to render me
helpless — stroke by stroke of ticking span
I fear that I will not break free.
From moment one, so much to do
that I worked straight through to the stroke of two;
and finally, with all affairs copacetic
took my lunch just to get some food.
O, how the Slav March toils my ears!
Until the weekend salves with beers —
till darkness comes to pull me down,
I sweat and fight through hours like years.
When darkness comes, as it does each day —
a visit to vet, to assess, I pray —
may it find me well enough to say:
“just passing through; l can not stay!”