You have the beautiful problem
of all willing early risers:
to own time, fully

before reality starts.
So much space to think, uninterrupted
before others make demands.

Such chances to get lost
turn and twist and dance and fly
before it strikes seven eight or nine.


The commuters move to their marks.
The news are about to begin shouting.
The emails are aligning high so high.

Ready, steady, go
the day is stolen
by the unstoppable flow.

But you’ve had your margin
Your blank page
Your world

Your chance at look and wonder
at open this | that useless door
your chance at staring

hard and long and aimless
at horizons and landscapes
inside your mind and out.

By nine you are exhausted.
Your true day is gone.
The one you follow now

is a convention
a game . a commitment
an agreement . a contract . a vow

with the expected reality
that is mostly made by others
and we all agree to know.

You go through it
respond . adapt . play
commute . experience . digest

mend the bruises
forgive the damage
accept the pain.

And wait, you wait
to your next beautiful problem
to the time you own, each morning 

away . separate . alone . happy
distant ignored unseen unnoticed
by those who compose the rest.