It’s six-thirty in the morning

And I am awake. 

There are threads of sunlight

That peak between the blinds of my living room.

 

It’s six-thirty in the morning

And the kettle is whistling at me.

Like a shrill wake-up call to reality, 

It creeps upon you, 

A crescendo into calamity,

Though only for a moment or so.

To stop it, we simply take it off the stove

And close our eyes again.

 

It’s six-thirty in the morning

And the streetlamps are turning off,

Their light is merely replaced by its natural form.

Here and there,

Little yellow bulbs turn on

In apartment windows,

Signaling that others are waking up

And getting ready for the day ahead of them.

 

It is a strange thing,

Time.

It waits for no one,

They tell me,

You simply have to keep up.

But at six-thirty in the morning,

I think Time slows 

To let me catch up with it.