Obviously, we set into routines to run on automatic pilot as we wake up and onward. Events and circumstances–amplified by the unexpected–end unconscious habits. Notice how the shape of the poem does this as well as content.
My life is filled with regularity.
Morning alarms, red digital time;
Coffee perks with predictability,
Stew in the crock-pot, seasoned with thyme.
Rush toward the job, traffic jammed to the hilt.
The e-mail warns, downsizing is near…
I’m sorry—clear your desk and get your gear.
This pinball brain starts flashing TILT.
Things fall apart; my center cannot hold
As driving home, my head woozes in a gyre…
Routine obliterates. Symmetry askew. Order
mires. Parked in the driveway, keys
cold in my hand. The front door recedes out there.
Moment of First Implosion is mine—
My watch melts. Numbers floats through the
windshield God knows where