When I was employed

What I used to do

Before I left my job

About the things I do all day

That take up the time

I’ll never quantify.

The vacuuming takes hours,

The dusting and wash,

The work it piles up.

There’s poetry and art

Like sunlight on the bench,

The big book on the shelf,

A resurrected dream.

Days are made of chunks,

Like segments of a pie,

Each eaten in a small timeslot

Measured by a kitchen clock,

Until the eve slows down the day

And sleep, the death peek,

Creeps up earned:

Self-imposed routine.

When I went to work

I got a social fix,

But time was abstract, quick.

And the dust? Just tumbleweed.