Monday Morning Predictability is a family poem. Familiarity in families doesn’t breed contempt, it broods bread, butter, and jam.

Monday Morning Predictability

 A premature alarm clock, blue shadows pasting a veil across 
reluctant thoughts of 

a new 5-day cycle, snug little fingers clenching down duvets, 
smelly socks hiding out among immaculate suits and school 
uniforms, boiled over milk and cereal sown across the kitchen 
floor sure to blossom, noisy quarrels in the bathroom queue 
peppered with hair-pulling and name-calling, time running out 
before we'd be flung into

a new 5-day cycle, raspberry jam stains on my blouse in cahoots 
with a sticky traffic jam, getting to the office on time 
resembling the melting butter on my daughter's toast, you, miles 
ahead stuck in a phantom meeting chewing gum to kill spinach 
smoothie flavours, the little one warring with yet another 
invading tooth, drowning out the alternative routes broadcast 
on morning radio on the morning of

a new 5-day cycle, small talk at the office coffee machine, 
pleasant morsels of competing hot-airs-and-graces, the Emporer's 
new clothes a hit, time to knuckle down and tackle the towering 
file stack, respond to digital signals the way an emergency crew 
fights to save lives, stale sandwich at the desk washed down 
with cold coffee, powering through powerpoints right until the 
sunset of 

a not-so-new 5-day cycle, back at base whisking up dinner, 
eradicating dirt, immaculating house and garden, making you and 
the kids laugh a little, at least, before snuggling them up and 
curling up to you on the sofa to relax only to fall asleep 
before the annoying commercial ends. Same thing, every start of

a predictable Monday morning, boring, tedious, overfamiliar, 
that's right, they say familiarity breeds contempt, I say, 
bread, butter, and jam.