It is 8 a.m. and everyone is waiting
for their lives to begin. We have made it
through the bad machinery of night
and await the conundrum of another day.
With backpacks and satchels full
of hypnotic computations, we walk
like accidental anthems with hands
in pockets to bus stop and office,
our usual seat behind the podium,
where some small manifesto
of self emerges, another way
to proclaim our aim, reiteration
of mandate and mantra.
Soon it is 12 p.m. and the clock
has cut the day in half.
Now a respite from the morning
grind, now a downhill slide. Before we know it
it is 4 p.m. and everyone is waiting
for the day to end. With a slowing of the breath
and a cooling of the skin, every gesture a rendered amen;
the pen laid down, the phone ignored,
each chair rolled neatly to its given slot.
With eyes firming in their gaze and a gait
adjusting to the evening routine—
we have carried ourselves well,
contained the troublesome boundaries
of the body and surrendered,
yet again, to a rendition of one.