Monday morning, before dawn.
The only sounds are forced air through vents,
the cat crying from room to room
wanting me to play with him,
and in the distance, traffic on the interstate.
On the table, my tie, which I probably won’t wear,
a turkey and cheese sandwich, an apple,
The Decay of the Angel by Mishima,
my briefcase in which to carry all this.
For breakfast, a glass of orange juice,
oatmeal and dried cranberries—the usual.
And, daffodils rising like the sun.