Ten minutes to twelve
kitchen’s closed, dinner’s over
yet table five’s still full
of laughter, an alien distant bliss
a sauntering passerby my broom denies,
recall of my duty, their prerogative.
Relentlessly will the clock
do its onerous chore
serving my needs with alienation
a rectifier of reality
peeling this imposition away
tantamount to a life that is not lived.
How many ticks I’ll be on hiatus
I cannot say.
Disassociation forces me apart
honoring my thirst for detachment
nurturing my spirit with delusion
I foray into the realm
of unaccomplished dreams
waiting to be woken up
by a single query:
“We would like to pay, please.”