Five O’clock Finish
Getting home is such a slog,
When driving in the rush-hour mob.
Sitting, staring at the red light masses
Yet another minute passes.
Stopped at a set of traffic lights,
Another queue is in my sights.
The radio reports of more delays
There’s an audible look of utter dismay.
Once I’ve driven through the throng,
The thought of you is like a sweet song.
Speeding home, like a bird released –
I hope I’m not clocked by the Police.
I turn my key to open the door,
Seeing you makes my heart soar.
Sitting down with a cup of tea,
It’s just you and me in front of the TV
Into my slippers, and out of my suit
This is the best part of the daily commute.