I have run out of routines

Waking Up
[Is less now like a time and more so an estimate, expansive above all else,
who knows how many angles of the sun I will miss in my dreaming]

Eating Breakfast
[Food, too soon, sits in my stomach, becomes its own urgent care on a Monday morning
each particle trembling, shaking their knees, clutching their palms, refusing to leave]

Making Coffee
[Always dependant now on the coffee sitting on the counter, or in the fridge, or none at all
a courtesy that has cracked autonomy open and let brown sludge leak out]

Brushing My Teeth
[My toothbrush has melted into a plastic pompom on a bending stick
and the paste has imploded in on itself, a minty black hole with white and green swirling]

Starting My Day
[When does a day start? At zero hundred? With the incessant clanging of alarms?
When eyelids open and yawns impact the air? When I’m ready to be alive?]