Laid awake, faced away from the sunrays, sheet covered face as she waves... one more daydream to delay the day. Used to be the alarm screamed and he’d be on his way, now, he waits for an empty house, then, from the sheets, he’s out. Although, still not out of danger, there is the confrontation of the mirror; ﷯ introspection commences compunction, still too shaken to realize it was never within his function. Just an organism in a disorganization, which was band aided even passed being bled dead, mandated by a class seeing bread fed. The innocent left in the fall, the victimless at fault, to a fault. Mid-afternoon, after two interviews, to view interred truths, 'that you work hard and be good and you’d have from the world to choose', he knew all expressions of hope to be platitudes, felt feckless, left lassitude. A feeling worse, wife brings home the purse. Just old fashioned, fashioned to hold his own… never imagined he’d speak so low. Dreads the thought of the dinner table, unable, to meet eyes, the thought of his kids’ sights of their father’s timid side implodes his insides. The thought of his wife’s compassion, leaves his ego even more compromised… Oh how he dies just hoping he could say, “Honey, I’m at the office, I’ll be home at five”.
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