Conquest Again

I imagine that successful people come home from work feeling that they've slayed the world's dragons. They glance at the people they pass on the freeway knowing that they did more, that the world wouldn't be as good if they had chosen to shut off the alarm and gone back to jousting a legion of Tickle-Me-Elmos armed with wrapping paper tube lances riding on shopping cart chariots. I imagine the successful people throwing open the door to their house victoriously. The door between their garage and kitchen, because successful people have attached garages. They take a few steps inside and then pose for a minute to intimidate the waning minutes of the day. The sun doesn't set, it hides behind the horizon in fear of being conquered by them. They stand there, fists upon waist like Superman. You can almost see the hurricane fan hiding in the mudroom, blowing on low. They stand there for a minute, right foot slightly forward like it's standing on the kitchen's chest, basking in accomplishment. They proceed to the dining room where dinner is waiting for them because they wait for nothing. And then to bed after some brief calisthenics. The sun doesn't rise in the morning, it peaks over the horizon to see if it's safe but they're waiting for it. They sleep on their backs and never roll over. It's less sleeping than waiting, waiting for the sun to peek from behind obscurity like it does every day, and like every day it meets the waiting gaze of the successful and leaps into the sky to get as far away as it can. And then out their front door they saunter with their wits as weapons, ready for conquest again.