Another week day, work day,
with chores and calls and reports
and errands and expectations to come.
It will be a full court press
until I rest my head
and I know this will be
my last pocket of peace,
if I grab it, hold it, fight for the moment.
I slide open the buffet drawer,
pull out a lighter,
grab a pair of crystal candlesticks.
I scoot my breakfast bowl to the side.
I turn my phone face-down;
it is not welcome where I am going.
I light twin flames,
center them in front of my eyes.
A flick and a targeted point here and there,
and I've done it.
With the first spark of the EZ Reach,
hot, stale air flees my tight mouth,
rushes past my nostrils.
Two candles and their wobbling flames
push the creeping To-Do list to the periphery,
bring me a microdose of meaning,
a pinch of purpose, a gram of grounding.
Change the rules, break the pace,
halt the chase of morning chaos.
It's magic, and I've made it, I own it.
This minute is mine.
