Morning, With Distraction

The chair is where I left it.

I sit. Light comes in

through the same window

it always uses.

The coffee steams a bit, then doesn’t.

Something aches—nothing new.

The sparrows make a start of it outside

as though the day required encouragement.

For a minute it’s almost simple.

Then the mind begins.

Not in any grand way—

just a drift,

faces turning up where they’re not wanted,

things said or not said

taking their usual positions.

You think you’re done with it.

You’re not.

There’s always some version of the past

that insists on being current—

a remark, a look,

a possibility that never settled.

It passes, eventually.

Or thins out enough

to let the room come back.

The cup is still there.

The chair.

The same light, doing its job.

No revelation in it.

No particular help.

Just this:

another morning

that hasn’t decided anything,

and won’t.

You sit in it anyway.

Drink what’s left.

Wait for the mind to quiet

or fail to—

it makes little difference.

The day will go on

with or without agreement.