The old adage goes:

Nature does not hurry yet everything is accomplished.

 

If there was no such thing as a Monday,

as an hour, 

as a bill to pay,

as pride,

as a boss,

as death,

 

maybe I wouldn’t need to 

spend the sunrise  

injecting performance enhancing 

drugs into my veins.

 

Maybe I would stretch out like my cat,

take a long stroll through the woods,

ask my neighbor what makes their 

geraniums so happy?

 

Ever since my grueling breakup with recess,

the clock stopped being my friend.

 

It taps the sharp edge of its wing tip shoe

and asks with a blank stare:

 

What have you done for me lately? 

 

Mountains don’t run to meetings, 

or pack their schedules 

like the apocalypse is coming.

 

Mountains don’t run anywhere.

 

There’s an impressive peak outside my office

that I swear hasn’t done a single thing

to get ahead of the others.

 

It must be nice 

to be so content.