Your well-intentioned friends keep trying
to frame me as your great ambition, career choice,
and sometimes you let them; otherwise,
you might find yourself trapped in the elevator
making small talk with your receptionist label.
We both know it’s a lie though.
I’m the cup of green tea you’ve made a habit
of drinking three times a day, or
the way you need to at least skim the news
before you feel you can do anything productive.
I’m the hour of reading you squeeze in
on the commute, a thoughtless duty
that makes the day whole.
I’m your 10 minute, 10 a.m. diary entry
scribbled on scrap paper, just a quick shake
of your words so they don’t gather dust,
just a quick scan of your inner dialogue
for signs of unrest, treason.
Composition by Pierre Dmitrienko
What is one of your daily rituals?