I woke up with an aching back
and saliva trailing down my cheeks.
When my eyes are reluctant
and the day comes 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 laughter
and join in the fray,
knowing all too well
that the constant breach of trust,
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 an all time favourite karaoke song.
And as the evidence disappears, I belt out a tone-deaf melody.
Before anyone can flick the switch
on my already dim rationality,
the squeaky marble floor becomes my stage
complete with a 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,
hoping 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.