Aztecs in the Jungle

You wake.
You wiggle your legs as you get out of bed.
“It’s showtime.”
Never mind there is no one to see.

You dress.
Clothes that fit, for a change.
Shoes. Load the pockets.
Feed the cat

and go down stairs.
Clean the coffee pot.
a morning ritual.
Fill the coffee pot. The mix

of local and exotic means,
just the way she likes it.
You let the cat out.
Pack up the computer

and leave. Off to your favorite diner.
No one else is there this early.
You and the cook.
You get your own coffee.

You sit to write.
Aware that you are perhaps
too regular in our habits,
to ritualistic, no different

than Aztecs in the jungle,
sacrificing hours instead of humans
all in the name
of pushing back the dark.

About this poem

I used to not be a guy who cared for schedules and the rituals of life, Once depression hit, and I learned the work of pushing it back, ritual is my friend.

The line about clothes that fit is a nod to my daughter who bought me some jeans and a shirt that fit for my birthday. I am wearing them this morning. The woman I love, who has to look at me, and I, are grateful.

Sipping my second cup of coffee,

Tom