Living The Stream

We get up late and another argument ensues.
My hangover beats on me.
You make your own coffee.
You would test the patience of saints in a mood like this.
I know the shout is coming.
I haven't seen your keys.
Everything's not alright, and the neighbours all now know.
The door slam's mandatory.
Footsteps: distant as you.
The heavens open, and I wish myself back to bed.
Bills insinuate their way in.
Reminders. Overdue.
I rush out quick, into the colour-blind's canvas.
I curse my weaknesses,
I crave old strengths.

Another working day of living the stream.
I count my blessings.
Roads fill with rage.
Seamless arteries become clotted with time.
Time we don't have.
Wipers tick it by.
A text message alert, and in a moment I'm alert too.
"Sorry." It says.
"These mornings are hard."
I smile to myself and reply that I am truly sorry too.
These times are hard.
But we are strong.
I watch dead leaves carried into the roadside drains.
Decaying and stagnant,
But not static, like I.