7:14 Again

Eleven mornings. Same time. Same drag

of plastic wheel across the concrete seam —

7:14, not a minute later.

I've started waking before it. Or so it seems.

The wheel catches on the crack between the slabs,

that half-second hesitation I know by now.

Pickup isn't until Thursday.

Today is Tuesday. I can't figure out how

this becomes the thing I track.

Maybe routine doesn't need a reason —

something to drag out, something to move,

the same act repeated through every season.

Twenty seconds, start to finish.

Then the door. Then nothing.

I've stopped asking what it means.

I just lie there, listening, counting.