Some days the monotony
is comfortable,
like old shoes that fit exactly right,
worn and rubbed in all the right places
so they always know
where you're going.
Sometimes though,
the sameness is different,
blurry like broken eyeglasses
that don't show you anything
except a white fog.
You still have to find your way
through the mornings like those ones,
stumbling and reaching into cupboards
like hope was hidden there,
wondering if the reason you can't see it
is because your eyes are closed.
Turns out they're already open.
It's just the shoes that are missing,
the rightness of knowing your steps,
the steadiness of a soul made for the
skin that fits around it.
