9 to 5
A mechanical scream into the night
tells them the sun is rising,
and they should too.
It is 9 am on the east coast
and they’re praying what’s left doesn’t remember
who they are when they’re not gracious in pointe slippers.
Slip free of the warm arms of their sheets
begging them to return, and attempt peaceful sleep
but the body follows its primal instinct:
get it’s ass to work so it still has sheets to come back to,
but never have long enough to truly appreciate.