Today's prompt: "I want you to write a poem about either a specific routine or routines in general. Maybe something related to taking out the trash each week or washing the dishes every night--or something more bizarre (yet still a routine)." Poetic Asides
Routines can be good, or stifling, or a little bit of both. But for people who can't remember where they left their shoes the night before, routines are a Godsend – because then there is a 50 percent chance the shoes will be where you're supposed to leave them. On the other hand, routines are safe, mundane, predictable... boring. How do you get out of one? You can wait for someone to give you a shove, or you can turn left instead of right for a change. Which, for the directionally challenged (like me), isn't usually a problem. Every day is a new driving adventure, especially in a town with continual major road construction. Figuring out how to get home with a minimum of left hand turns across dug up streets is my new hobby. Can't autopilot to work any more, for fear of accidentally driving up a line of barrels going the wrong way. Not that that ever happened to me. Not more than once...
My rigid schedule wears a furrow
in the fabric of the universe.
Caught in an continual loop
I long for the day the record
skips, the tape slips, a stutter steps,
anything to rupture habits out
of complacency. From deep
in the dank abyss of my rut, I peer
up at a Prussian sky and wait
for someone to drop me a line,
or a hand. Even my car has turned
against me, driving to work,
the store, home without my active
participation. I am a pod person, Stepford
wife, zombie- victim of inertia
and the inability to shuffle my notes.