Work always comes first,
the boldest diary colour
that turns everything else pale.
It dominates the pages, edging all the
fun bits out, leaving me isolated
to the point I must be insane.
Work is my safety, my go-to place of peace.
It blocks out spontaneity, seizes signs
of naughty and caprice.
Work has stolen precious time
with my wonderful only child:
“Mummy doesn’t play,” she says.
“She kind of works a lot.”
To hear her truth said out loud
touches a lonely place at core.
But I really don’t know how to play,
which must make me a desperate bore.