Waiting, again.

Sixteen minutes to be exact,
and even then
it's only a lick of paint
to keep the half smile
on the boss's face.

I'm not sure if I'm here
to see what I can say
in sixteen minutes
or to establish whether I miss it.
Either way,
I don't have the time anymore.

When those moments swing by
they are to be grabbed by the balls
not wasted with the stagnant art
of putting the 'everyday'
in to stanzas.
Just imagine...

If the next time you had half an hour to kill
you jumped rope, ran, hit a bag,
did some press-ups -anything.
You may laugh at me
for such a jock-eyed suggestion,
but remember...
I've been to both camps
and the one you're in
doesn't work for anyone.

Not for as long
as you'd like it to.

Twelve minutes to go.