Daylight Savings

I awaken
to the unexpected light
of this morning. Its day
already. Yesterday
and the night
are gone. I become aware
of the small sounds
of you
in the bathroom. Find
the Advil
to ward it off. Find the
Tums now
your stomach sour. A
quick brush of your teeth
for the taste
so bad in your mouth. Erasure. Not
your morning waking rituals:
back to bed now. To sleep it
some of it
all of it
away. I know. I know.

The quiet squeak of the cork
slid from the bottle
a long swallow
the fridge door held open
just so long. You
were getting a glass of water.

Down the stairs you go
to get the laundry
whoops!
you forgot
already got it. I'll find your
empty
in the flowerpot
in the spring.

To someone else's kitchen
to start to clean up
one big slug
before anyone gets up
and comes in
to help you.

I know. I know. All I can
manage is
I know. Not even yet
how I feel.

I know your rituals
like mine
of changing
the batteries in the
smoke detectors
resetting the clocks
in the house
and in the cars.

My finite tasks. Your
adaptive shift
of wrenching rhythms.