Daily Routines

I am a person who owns aluminum foil, plastic wrap, Tupperware. I have a blender, a whisk, napkins, plate sets. I butter toast in the morning.

I am someone with a newspaper subscription. I own a TV. I have a number of desks.

I am a man with a mirror in every room, and a sliding glass door to the patio area where the barbeque sits, where the lawn furniture resides next to the potted plants on plant stands, next to the orange wire temporary fence that keeps my dog off my lawn.

I go grocery shopping.

I pick up the mail.

I have two telephones.

I drink water from a metal bottle. I wear shorts to bed. I take showers an wipe the mist from the mirror before I comb my hair.

I am a guy with Internet access.

I chew on pens.

I take out the garbage.

I commute to work, and I pass, each morning, the white cross with hung flowers, next to the traffic light, the exact spot where the man died one morning, in the fog, next to his utility truck, in the field that waits for tract housing, across from the parking lot in front of the strip mall.

And I am a person who owns aluminum foil.