Punctuality

I hate being late. YES, being late.
It’s one thing I cannot abide.
I’d rather be an hour early
Than to be one minute slow.

Although I know
The hurly-burly of
This hurry scurry world can
Force delays,
Spread dismay,
Even lead to seeds of woe. 


Seldom are there fair excuses
To recuse such slack convention.
Just a sad habituation,
One of seven deadly sins.

Quick to offer self-defense when
Faced with fussy admonition.
Spry with jives and whys and wherefores
Ere the reprimands begin. 

Difficult to comprehend
Or hold a grain of empathy
For those who pose and thumb their nose
At hints of punctuality.

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