The Morning Ritual

At 6:15 the screen door gives a slap,

a tinny, sharp sound that breaks through the glass.

I don’t need an alarm or a map of the gap

between the night and the hours that pass.

He stands on the porch in a robe the color of sand,

and shakes out a mat made of plastic and grit.

He does it with rhythm, a flick of the hand,

and for thirty-one seconds, he’s part of it.

The dust of his life disappears in the air,

a cloud of gray nothing that floats to the yard.

He looks at the driveway with a permanent stare,

then heads back inside while the morning stays hard.