Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
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At 3 AM the hospital breathes differently—a low hum of machines keeping promises the doctors wrote and went home.
On Sundays he polished his shoes at the edge of the bed, small circles, black cloth,
You didn't choose them. They were assigned to you by an algorithm of proximity and payroll.
Monday is the day the world clears its throat and says: again.
At five, the office windows begin returning the sky. Screens go dark.
My father fixed the loose gate, the lamp with the stubborn switch, the bicycle chain that bit my thumb.
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