These samey days and nights popped uniform

from ice trays, stirred together in a mug

make baby food; gone by blent with to come.

Once, as now, I sat playing on the rug,

clockwatching, hoping secretly to bore

my children but they just came back for more.

It was, but is no longer once I say

“cleanup time”; like how I’m not late for work

but I will be when I get there. Going gray

in mirror only, readied in the dark,

I chase the ever-leaving train and hum

a lullaby whose words I do not know.

Much as I am, I’m sad I’m not more so,

but you can’t say I’m ever late for home.