Not up for this stuff this morning,
Sore, tired, grumpy,
The heated seat has its hold,
My friends just ran into the dark,
Sanity soothes on the radio,
And I’ve got nine minutes until
I slip into the cold wet
Of a swimming pool
To go all otter back and forth
Sucking wind and butching to myself
The whole time.
It’s quite a surprise I’m even here,
A man my age, with this energy level
Should be sleeping,
But I’m here,
Lack of everything and all.
Routine has a way
Of making spontaneity cautious,
Of making adventure untenable,
Of putting acceptance into an unwieldy place.
Then there is the idea that a routine
Is a foundation for things like
Finding paths in the snow,
Running down the middle of a dark road,
Or under bright stars
In the moments before sunrise.
I love those routines,
The cold and dark,
The frozen breath banter
Making the feels like temperature
Nothing but a conversation piece.
For it’s in those heart-pounding meet-ups
Where the repetition of one stride after another
Takes me away from the routines
Of going to work,
Watching talking heads banter about treason and liberty,
Or just sleeping my life away.
This month, the one built on so many failed resolutions,
Is proving to be the sort of break I’ve needed,
One where I’m taking leave of my excuses, my limitations,
Thirty-one days of living a routine filled with challenge,
Adventure, and “bull-shit” that staves off apathy.
The rewards are plenty of laughter,
A chance to stretch my social hesitancy,
An opportunity to test my resolve,
And an occasion to get outside of my normal routine.