poetry by j matthew waters


He wakes up tired and alone and starts
the daily routine all over again,
asking himself what’s it all for,
this grind called life; doing the same thing
day in and day out and seemingly
not getting anywhere.

In the kitchen the cat tries to order
bacon and eggs as he pours himself
a cup of orange juice,
dispensing the daily supplements
onto the counter, convinced they’re necessary
to keep his vital organs functioning.

Once on the highway he interacts
with sports talk radio, arguing against
this Sunday’s predictions.
Nearing downtown he darts into the fast lane
and accelerates past the exit ramp,
a smile on his face and Vegas
only three hundred miles away.

october two thousand twelve
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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