Tell us about your morning routine.
ROUTINES OF 1992
Every day
I drive my son
To catch the same bus,
At the same time,
To the same school.
The same five people
In the same clothes,
Blue collar, white collar,
Wait
On the same seat,
The arrival
Of the same bus.
They stand
At the same time,
Entering
In the same order,
Punching
The ticket machine
In the same way,
Day, after day, after day.
Greeting,
(Usually) the same driver,
In the same way,
Stepping
To the same seat,
In the same way,
Day, after day, after day.
I leave,
Following the same route,
Frustrated
By the same light,
Sonorously red,
Refusing pressure pad prompt,
(Although the road’s empty).
Teasing,
Tempting rules breach,
Day, after day, after day.
Finally released
Into idle traffic flow,
I pass
The same people.
Walkers, joggers, runners,
Pursuing the same routines,
In the same order,
Going to the same places,
Monday to Friday,
Day, after day, after day.
A man
Like a king,
Strides
Stick in hand,
Ahead of his spouse,
His special queen,
Ready to thwack
Intrusion
Into their private space.
Starting,
And finishing,
Within the sanctity of their abode.
A woman,
Thin,
Athletically clad,
Runs her dog,
Toward a day of canine languidness.
Recovering its energy,
While she works.
Two ladies
In earnest conversation
Talk away the metres,
Their walk secondary
To earnest discourse.
Yesterday’s happenings
Uppermost in their minds.
They seem unaware,
Of the lifted penumbra,
And escape
Of early morn,
Into the day.
Downhill
Strides a man.
Enthusiastic,
Sarong wrapped,
Sandle shod.
A stout, knobby staff,
Aids his energetic gait.
He walks with fervour,
Religiously propelled,
With no time to spare,
Before ministering
To the next needy soul.
Days, weeks, months,
Come and go.
This same ritual
Punctuates each day,
Each week,
Each month,
In the same way.
Each day,
Beginning anew,
Completing its cycle,
In the same way,
Day,
After day,
AFTER DAY.
Poor Old Henry
