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.