Once there was a houseful of noisy girls,
their squabbling and hair-washing,
stumbling cockeyed up the stairs at night.
They’d catch him standing at the top,
one hand holding up his pajamas,
the other waving the alarm clock,
incontrovertible evidence of their crime.
Do you have any idea what time it is,
he’d ask rhetorically. And they’d stifle giggles
behind each other’s backs.
Now they’re scattered to other countries
busy with their jobs and children,
their unhappiness. If time was money
he’d be on the pig’s back these days... Read more
TAGS: creative writing