30 Day Poetry Challenge: Day 22

My daughter Hannah suggested this challenge for our family. She wanted to try writing more poetry, and she hoped that this challenge might get her into the habit. She, my daughter Emma, and I started this thing, and then my wife joined after a few days. Now we are all doing the challenge. 

Today is Day 22.

I don't know if this is my best work. I found today's prompt very challenging.

22. Write a poem that takes readers through a week in your life. Embrace the mundane, the excitement, and everything in between.

At home in my office.

Monday.

Up at five,
Stumbling through the kitchen,
Making coffee.
Where are my keys?
Where are my gloves?
Where is my coffee?

On the bike, wind in my face.
Alive.

Train. Train. Train. Train. Train. Train.

Sitting at my desk, staring at screens.
Sitting & staring.
Staring & sitting.
More machine than man.

Am I alive? Is this living?

Back on the bike, sun in my face.
I’m alive.
I really am. I’m alive.

Waiting on the platform.
No, I don’t have any change.
Did you know that you’ve pissed yourself?

Train. Train. Train. Train. Train. Train.

Chopping vegetables, boiling water, getting plates on the table, sitting down.

Cleaning up.

I’m alive again, for an hour, sitting on the couch with ice cream. With Sally.
And hopefully NOT also with Bob.
But sometimes with Bob.
Sigh.

Brushing my teeth, laying down.
Trying not to think about tomorrow…


Tuesday.

Up at six-thirty.
Good god, it feels good to sleep.
Stumble downstairs, make some coffee, fire up my desk.

More man than machine.

Emma needs me, the dog need me. Hell, even the dishes need me.
And sunlight streams in through the windows.

Later, I stumble through the basement,
Collecting clothes, towels, swim suits.
Filling my water bottles.
Stand at the edge of the pool deck.

Will I be alive today,
Or just a shell of my former self?

Dinner. Dishes.
An hour with my wife.
An hour with my life.
And then I’m…

Trying not to think about tomorrow.


Wednesday.
Is a lot like Monday.
Thursday.
Is a lot like Tuesday.
Friday.
Is a lot like Wednesday but with fewer people.
And, you know... It’s FRIDAY.

Eventually, Sally and I split a bottle of wine.
We’re alive for two hours. Maybe three. And it’s nice.


Saturday.

I’m up at seven. Maybe seven-thirty.
It’s nice to sleep, but
It takes a long to wake up, and
I’ve got to swim.

Like, I've REALLY got to swim.
Like a Real Swimmer. Not like an Old Man.

Drop Emma off, wheel the car around, put on something upbeat, and then
I’m standing at the edge of the pool deck.

Reach, pull, breathe, stretch.

Reach, pull, breathe, stretch.

It’s Saturday, and I have time. For once.
I’m alive. At least for a little while.

I’m alive. I'm really ALIVE.

Starving.
Eggs on the stove. English muffins in the toaster. Table set.
Sally asks, “Did you make me some?”

Not yet. But I did set two places at the table.


Sunday.

A day of light. A day of life.

It's over in an instant.

And then I'm trying not to think about tomorrow.