On What Matters

Rush Hour

Some days, I wake my daughter early.
As soon as I hear the tone of the alarm,
adrenalin memories buzz my brain.
I mould the model of the man,
I shower, I shave, I groom,
dark suit, sober socks, glittering tie.
We like to stand on the train, feel
the rush hour nudging and swaying,
absorb the pressure to be somewhere.

We sit in the window, best view,
she sips her milkshake, and muffin,
I look over the brim of my Americano,
chase fleeting shadows walking past.
I see my former self, wide eyed,
eager to impress, to prove my worth.
My daughter looks up at me,
half way through a mouthful:
'Why don't you go to work, daddy?'