The Same Day

By Hudson Gardner

The red woven towel hangs limply from the oven. I have already used it twice to dry my hands today. The wind outside moves new leaves of bushes. The ants have begun to build tunnels. A metal shack by the beat up street has a padlock I have never tried to open. The lock hangs from a handle that is rusting off. The apricot tree nearby has never been pruned. Yet every year it produces new fruit. Cars still pass on Agua Fria street. The sun still rises and wakes me up. I feel confused about how I feel when each day is the same. This endless cycle of waking and sleep.

A response to the National Poetry Month prompt