Routine

Morning after morning you awake from sleep
and grope in the closet for clothes to wear,
groggy and blinded by the morning light,
owner of a heartbeat and a breath of air.

You wander from the bathroom still doubtful of the day
to button up your shirt and settle in your clothes,
you smell the toast and coffee that your wife prepares,
instinctively you find the hall and follow your nose.

A clock-instructed radio blares the morning news,
you fumble with the paper at the table as you eat,
but now you start to hurry, gulp your food and drink,
the clocktick in your mind is a loud drumbeat.

You find the street you travel to office, lab or shop,
the work you finished yesterday rides with you as you drive,
with never time to stretch and say, thank God I breathe,
or tell your heart, good work old man, we’re still alive.