Too Slow

Every day,

waiting,
waiting.

One hour passes,
then two.

Noon comes slow,
and six o'clock slower still.

Glorious images of treacle tarts and chocolate fudge brownies,
egg and cress sandwiches and a thousand different pizza topping
are ever constant.
Ever waiting.
Ever teasing.

The day is spent doing meaningless, time consuming activities,
in hope that the food will be forgotten.

The kitchen is full of good food,
corn chips, chocolate-chip cookies and big, fat sausages.

But this food is not to be touched,
on pain of death.

The morning is spent waiting for lunch time,
the afternoon for dinner and the evening for breakfast.

Meals too small and over far too soon,
can't breakfast come any quicker?

It is pathetic,
yet it is torture,
living every second, of every day,
in thought
of the next meal.