By Joy Mao
three short rings to start the day,
to red lights I blink awake;
shirt and jeans, a sock then two,
just five minutes, else more I’d rue.
a plate, a glass, a fork and knife,
ten minutes max to cause no strife;
sling a bag and lock a door,
three minutes, no less no more.
five to the bus stop, twenty to school,
as always I follow ev’ry which rule;
right turn, left turn, straight down the hall,
steady and stable, no chance of a fall.
a class then two and lunch after three,
no question of whether I’d ever be free.
one more hour I stare at the board,
not spacing out more than I can afford.
one last ring, then again out the door,
steps like a marching band, one-two, three-four;
twenty more back, then ten till I’m home,
nowhere exciting do I ever roam.
two hours pass, have I done what I should?
the answer is no, and so it always would
be such a mystery, why don’t I change?
but what a trouble that would be to arrange.
it’s fine as it is, this mindless life,
ambitions few and contentment not rife.
I couldn’t imagine a more boring world
than this one here that I have unfurled.
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