improve poem

In the morning there is the rustle
I stretch awake, wither and quake,
as I yawn.
In a moment it will begin
extremes of a Monday morning
coffee, paper, traffic jams
and by 5 o'clock I'll wish
I was anywhere else.
But with snooze in full effect
I have 15 more minutes
to pretend its
Sunday again.

10/9/06