A simple poem for a simple day…

Wake. Decide to rise.
Contort around cats,
exit bed. Pee. Assemble
morning wardrobe:
T-shirt, jams, special
slippers, topped by
cardigan or flannel
(basement's cold).
Grab phone, glasses,
water. Walk quietly
to kitchen—wife still
sleeps. Begin making
coffee: short cup from
machine or one-cup
drip depending on time.
Feed cats, open side blinds.
Coffee in hand, head
downstairs. Confirm
number of beers, head
into study. Benny eagerly
dancing around my
ankles, awaiting moment
I sit in rose-colored
Queen Anne chair. He
starts his own ritual,
circling in back of the chair,
slinking 'round chair-leg, 
wall, bookcase until once 
again in front, promptly jumps
to footstool, then lap.
Protect myself with two
layers from kneading claws.
Benny settles. Sip coffee.
Reach for daily devotional 
guide: "Give us this day,..."

Hearing my wife rise 
directly above us, Benny
heads upstairs. I finish
contemplating, praying,
follow him up. Greet her,
re-greet Benny, head for
shower to start my day.

Ritual begins unraveling
at that point, threads from
worn fabric of every day
separating into this day's
possibilities. Peculiar how
day's end holds its own
ritual as if transiting into,
away from consciousness
demands ceremony.

---

73/100
100 poems in 100 days