That’s Not Living

the sun was rising
air as crisp as the turnover of autumn to winter

cigarette in one hand,
coffee in the other,
he took a puff before putting out his cancer.

striding to the front door,
fumbling for his keys,
he left the building,
the place that had encapsulated much of his daily living

the routines of life had stuck with him.
every. single. morning:

he stuck his key in the ignition
(as per usual)
foot on the break,
he turned the ignition,
put the gear in reverse,
and backed out of his parking space,
the one the landlord assigned to him,
13 years ago this day.

speeding along the highway,
his phone rang
- an unusual circumstance
lit up the corners of his blues

picked up,
it was his mother,
rather: doctor,
her cancer had finally won the war:
she had passed.

pulled over at the side of the road,
bent over into his lap,
he collapsed.
his routine had befallen him.

it's funny
he thought
how you get so wrapped up in your daily routine
that you fail to acknowledge the mere tragedy
of living
... you come to expect everything
but fail to be grateful.

he sat there,
masked in his own silence,
tears glinting the corners of his cheeks,
watching as the cars sped by,
occupied with busy workers heading to their destinations
for another day of "making a living"

he thought
That's not living.

- p.p. // That's Not Living


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