Five fifty-three a.m.

Outside the coffee shop,

Poseidon checked his pocket watch,

He rolled down his sleeves, and decided to leave.

His brothers were late,

He sighed.

Again, another matter of fate,

Three hours of wasted time.

He could have risen the sea,

Or shaken the earth,

But no.

Hades apparently, had taken an enemy

To the depths of hell 

Put him under some spell,

And Zeus just wasn’t having it.

King of the Gods,

What more did he need?

He was ruler on Mount Olympus.

Gladly, thought Poseidon,

Would he have taken the job,

But nothing ever turned out the way he wanted it.

Well his brothers could fight, and figure it out, or not,

But he wouldn’t be there when they returned from hell, 

or wherever it was they were having their argument.

He had things to do.

His chariot waiting, 

Parked gracefully in the middle of Hawthorne Road,

A bale of turtles beside it.

He had hippokampuses, that hadn’t been fed

In weeks.

He could make his bed, for once in his life,

Or paint the walls of his palace white.

He turned on his heel, 

Tripping over an eel,

Wondering how it had gotten there.