these here,
they are the moments-
when time will stop,
and any anticipation or hope
is slowly taken away,
with the monotony of the ticks
from the clock.

busy hands frantically scurry
over a million key taps on the
outdated machines.

there is a desperate stale air
that only fridays can breed.
this is the place where everyone
waits out for the end.

this is our final hour,
of outr final day
before the joyus recess.

yet the minutes move as
molasses slipping through
the very air we breathe.

the clock, it seems-
has stopped moving.
the day will not end
until i stop waiting
for it to cease.

thus is the day
before the break.

03/28/2003

Posted on 03/28/2003
Copyright © 2025 Andrew S Adams