morning routines

Isolation express! Leaving on track... wait - we're going nowhere.

What do theologians call a life without events?

The lights of my prison-like room dawn before sun's first blush. 

I open sand-papery eyes as my AI announces the morning.

I begin the puppetry of morning routines:

I study my pale inmate face as I polish the porcelain. 

I look less of a drowsy-angel than a zombie as I splash cold water 

on the face with an almost determined lack of expression.

I’m absorbed in an ocean of predawn cold 

as I 5-mile-walk away my sleepiness - this small freedom 

- keeps me fit and acceptably sane.

Later, bathed in hot indifference,

and clothed in exhausting obligations, 

I dine, at my reserved table, with my gang of irritations. 

Soon I’m ready for another taxing day 

of waiting for the disease to run its course.

Author's Note

all comments welcome

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

Hello dear Anais. Life can fall into a bad norm. Somehow we must go forward and hope for a good ending.
I hate waking-up. Hard for me to find sleep.
"Soon I’m ready for another taxing day
of waiting for the disease to run its course."
I do understand the above lines. Thank you for sharing your amazing poetry and your thoughts.
Coyote

[barleygirl]

I hope you will take this in the most flattering way possible, but your rendition caused me to blurt out, as I finished: WHAT A B***H! I mean, to do a character profile that makes a reader blurt out ANYTHING is a victory, plain & simple. Your irony is so freakin' thick, it feels like the proverbial elephant on the chest in a delicious way. You are hilarious in your depiction of lockdown misery . . . every little snivel, such as "pale inmate face" . . . you never miss a chance to tweak the whine to an ear-splitting level . . . all done very creatively & intelligently (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie