I’m shoving this cart that squeaks like doom,
sweat sliding south — no space, no room.
I feel like Santa off his sleigh,
who’d much prefer the beach today.

I push through life, through every line —
for bread, for fruit, for who-knows-what this time.
We’re all just pushing, that’s our fate,
then wonder why we’re always late.
Why all this speed? What’s the reward?
Just traffic jams and minds that’s bored.

I’m getting dull, too tired to care,
as if life’s joke is thin air.
Work’s drained the joy, the soul, the fun —
and I’m not sure what’s left to run.
So I’ll lie down, take a nap,
and swear I’m done — no more this trap.

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But first, of course, I’ll grab my keys,
zoom off like wind between the trees.
Drop the kid, buy milk and beans,
and cook up lunch by half-past three.

Then I’ll ask, as minutes flee:
why’s life in such a rush with me,
when honestly — if you must know —
I’m moving slower
day by day.

Tomaž Jevšenak