I woke up with an aching back

and saliva trailing down my cheeks.

When my eyes are reluctant

and the day too fast,

the bunch of hyperactive monkeys

are all but ready to let me sleep.


Already, their laughter explodes

in my ears as I discover

my breakfast all gone

and the house just hit

by an invisible storm.


I lose myself in their tickling laughter

and join in the fray,

knowing all too well

that the constant breach of trust,

though unknown, would not end or bode well.


As we turn the already disaster

struck house into our playground,

the bliss slowly turns to guilt

and, as the monkeys slowly fall back to bed,

I pick up all that is left.


Wielding a broom and waving my dustpan in the air,

I tie my apron's strings,

turn up the radio,

and hum along to

the all too familiar survival song.


As the evidence disappears, I belt out my tone-deaf melody

and someone flicks the switch

on my already dim rationality.

The squeaky marble floor becomes my stage

and the broom stick and dustpan;

a hairy electric guitar and a plastic microphone stand.


Soon, 'fans' start bearing

down on the front door.

I call for calm and glide to them.

I had hoped to confirm

that the shouts above the music

were screams for an encore.


Then, like a much needed blow to the head,

my fleeting 'singing career' meets its grim end.

Alas, my first official autograph was

on anything but a recording contract.

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