first thing in the morning
come rain or come shine
he counts the steps from bedroom
to kitchen
first peeking inside the icebox
then checking the cupboard
sometimes he’s dressed and
other times not
but usually it’s before dawn
as he meanders about
like a blindman
like a sleepwalker
like a creek lost in the woods
he has no sense of hunger
but his hearing is impeccable
and always he yearns to listen
to anything unfamiliar
but sadly settles for a cup of tea
preferably black or green or red
when the whistles blows
he knows the pain will soon subside
and from there it matters not
whether rain or sunshine arrives
september two thousand seventeen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
