Adulting

They said it would be good—
this being grown,
this having a life of your own.

It turns out
to be mostly repetition.

You wake.
Make coffee.
Drink it without noticing.

Shower.
Dress.
Go somewhere you are required to be.

Work fills the hours
in a way that seems convincing
until it doesn’t.

Lunch is brief
and not especially memorable.

Then more of the same.

Evening returns you
to the same rooms.

You make something to eat.
Watch whatever is on.
Go to bed.

And this continues.

It isn’t terrible.
That would be easier to forgive.

It’s just that nothing in it
resembles what was promised—

unless this was it all along,
and no one thought to say so.