One, the alarm clockbeaten bloody and blue.
I keep diving back in ten-minute attempts
to recapture the high of dreaming
something for the first time.
It just leave me groggy
but I’ll never learn.
Two, the coffee. Four minutes to steep
give or take. The tiny timer that accompanied
the french press took a swan dive off the countertop
during a house party. Now it just blinks
a nonstop series of eights at me,
occasionally chirping for no reason.
One milk. One sugar. Stir.
Three, the news. On a screen. Over breakfast.
Bombings and bad news stuck between
clickbait and cat videos so close together
they start to blur.
“You won’t believe how many refugees
fleeing certain death in Syria scrap by
just by following this one weird trick!”
I used to read the news for inspiration,
now it’s another bad habit
like my coffee addiction, or telling the truth
at the wrong times.
Four, the walk to the station, past houses
that have glimpsed a century through weary windows,
under twisted Tim Burton trees crawling skywards
like slow lightning in reverse. Same route every time.
Round the corner of the coffee shop, a breath of fresh grounds
bleeding into half smoked cigarettes, the wet fur of dogs
Waiting patiently, throwing side glances
at the produce stands outside the next-door grocer
Quietly praying dog prayers for a runaway tomato.
Five, the train.
I always take the last car.
Couldn’t explain it if I tried.