by Brianna G. Harte
When does the day end for us?
Is it to the setting sun?
Or is it when our work days
Have ended after they’ve run?
To all my archi people,
Are our days numbered one?
If work is never ending
and a battle never won?
To all my artsy people,
Are our days numbered well?
If sleep comes in pieces,
When we see it can they tell?
To all my night-shift people,
From all across the land,
If our days end in dawning,
Is it sunlight that we sell?
Never has four o’ clock
Resonated with the world
For we all work in different zones
And the days have always swirled.
A 4pm is a teacher’s day done
And the 4pm is a trucker’s just begun.
No system can say
When our work is done
That there is no longer a day
When a Sunday transforms to a Monday
And we have never slept,
Who can say that Monday’s not Sunday
And calendars will suit me?
Copyright © 2015 Brianna G Harte. All rights reserved.
