Winter Sunday: A Poem

It's Sunday morning in January, and I lay still in bed.
The alarm is sounding, my husband's yelling (nicely), and I am filled with dread.
My toes are freezing, my fingers cold
And my make-up's at least twelve hours old.
My hair, it smells of nicotine, but I will not shampoo.
Oh coworkers surrounding me - have I got a treat for you!
My socks don't match, my pants are wrinkled and my shirt already worn,
Up too late for healthy food, breakfast is candy corn.

I sit at my desk, my shoes off to the side,
I am falling asleep - and trying to hide.
The emails roll in, one after the other.
Each customer an idiot - whom I'd like to smother.
I listen to the radio, I cruise around the net.
You'd think I'd get in trouble - but it hasn't happened yet.

It's time to take some phone calls now, so I had better go.
All these people are stuck in their homes because of all the snow.
I wish that I were stuck at home like them- lazily making calls,
Asking ridiculous questions and driving people up the walls.