Working Dreams

January waits with the promise
Of a new
Threshold to cross,
But its inauspicious start
Ends more bitter than cold.
Midnight is approaching
So I start running -
Here comes my bus,
Early for once.

One journey too many,
Or so it seems,
As traffic lights intervene
To force a stop -
A glance left reveals to me
A decaying grey headstone
In a graveyard,
Bearing my last name
And nothing more.

The fatigue brought on
By day jobs and dreams of work
Weighs heavier
Each passing second;
With one eye fixed firmly
On the time,
An escape from my
Constricting uniform
Is planned meticulously.

All the long-held threats
Of optimism
Die when midnight strikes,
As the aromatic aura of
The kissers,
All so murderously beautiful,
Haunts me all morning long -
Sleep becomes impossible
To fight off, then:

Working dreams envelop me;
Some of which can come alive,
At least.