The morning minutes get away around
the list of my select eclectic jobs.
I rise to write and exercise the hound
and me, but something pressing always robs
us of ten minutes here or thirty more
to tend the house, the garden, office, kids.
Like lumber in my current, each odd chore
makes dams or rapids, and my traction skids.

Then why do evening hours drag? How come
I can’t reserve some verve for end of day?
It should be possible to squirrel some
of precious time, to bank an hour the way
I save up currency – deposit now
and later draw some energy somehow.