The alarm at six-thirty.
Coffee.
The same cup,
the one with the chip
near the handle.
Toast, perhaps.
Keys from the bowl.
Coat from the chair.
The car reluctant
in the morning cold.
Traffic.
A man in the next lane
drinking coffee
from a paper cup.
A woman putting on lipstick
at the light.
The radio saying
something happened
somewhere.
At work,
the computer wakes.
Password.
Email.
Good morning.
Good morning.
How was your weekend?
Fine.
By ten
you are thinking about coffee.
By eleven-thirty,
lunch.
You eat it
from a plastic container
at your desk,
or perhaps you go out
with someone
whose name,
forty years later,
you will struggle to remember.
Then two o’clock.
Three.
That enormous country
between lunch
and going home.
You look at the clock.
2:43.
You work.
You look at the clock again.
2:46.
How slowly
a life can pass.
And how quickly.
Because one Tuesday
you look up
and the desk
belongs to someone else.
No alarm.
No traffic.
No password.
Tuesday morning
and nowhere
you have to be.
For years
you wanted this.
Now the coffee
takes longer.
You sit with it.
The refrigerator
comes on.
Eleven o’clock.
No one is waiting
for anything.
You go to the store.
Milk.
Bread.
Something for dinner.
Another Tuesday.
Then another.
Until Tuesdays
begin to contain
appointments.
A waiting room.
Your name called.
Numbers spoken
carefully.
A prescription
waiting at the pharmacy.
You come home.
Put the kettle on.
Sit down.
Tuesday afternoon.
A car door slams
somewhere outside.
The kettle clicks off.
You do not get up
right away.
Perhaps because
there is time.
Perhaps because
there is less time.
Another Tuesday.
Then another.
The body becomes
its own calendar.
Good days.
Bad days.
Days when getting dressed
is enough.
Days when someone else
brings the coffee.
Still Tuesday comes,
aggressively ordinary,
asking nothing,
promising nothing.
Morning.
Noon.
Afternoon.
Later,
Tuesdays become quieter.
Someone opens the curtains.
Someone brings coffee
and leaves it
within reach.
A truck reverses
somewhere outside.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
The pills
in their little cup.
A nurse asks
what day it is.
Tuesday.
Yes.
Tuesday.
Rain against the window.
A television
talking to no one.
At noon,
a tray arrives.
Soup.
Bread.
Tea.
The afternoon
takes a long time.
Someone comes in
and adjusts the blanket.
Someone says,
I’ll see you tomorrow.
Outside,
cars wait
at a red light.
Someone is late for work.
Someone is standing
in line for coffee.
Someone looks at the clock.
2:43.
Tuesday afternoon.
A pigeon lands
on the ledge,
walks three steps,
stops,
and looks in.
