Routine Poem by Jerry Pike

Routine

Looking in the bathroom mirror,
routine would let itself dream,
into happy new ventures.
Insecure in its own repetitiveness,
it yearned unusual textures
to old Braille paths.
Escaping its own circle one day,
it ran and ran,
breathless and adolescent,
in a hot-headed straight line
out to nowhere.

A man stood watching,
with nothing to do,
as routine’s silence
glanced back,
though sun dust
and habitual remorse.