The End of the Holiday

I
Salavador Dali.
Tonto.
John McClane.

II.
Seven days that melt away
that is the half term holiday.
"I don't like it, colonel,
It's too quiet" - he'll
know the point of an arrow
in his back, just like tomorrow
when we return to the attack,
that whiteboard-and-chair shack,
that SCHOOL - and if not
tomorrow, then tomorrow's tomorrow -
the endless sorrow
of knowing that your time is up ...

III.
Time is a syrup of melting clocks
feeling like a sleep-locked dream,
Struggling against the conveyor stream
of fate, legs like rocks.

You wait for your line,
"I don't like it, it's too quiet"
the arrow is tomorrow:
stabbed in the back by time.

You know where the bomb is,
You know when it will detonate,
But you know you cannot deactiate
it by logical rules of time and space.

Time will march forward.
Monday morning will explode in your face
when that alarm goes off; this is
the worker's reward.