Staring at the clock, it mocks my plight.
Five minutes left, or so it claims,  
But time has turned to molasses;
Every tick a tiny giggle,  
As my coffee grows cold,  and
My chair re-forms to my shape.  
It’s then that I ponder
The deeper questions,
Like if I can train my stapler to fetch,  
Or if the printer is secretly plotting against me?

Words, & Illustrations (c)BobChristian