My Day

This is the way it begins:
Daylight appears without introduction. A faintness seeps between concrete monoliths. The morning rumble is unleashed. A distant siren weeps and dogs stir.
The heavy covers are warm and I have no urgent reason to rise—except I do.
The list rests on my night table. Pleasant dreams are forgotten; nightmares pollute the temper of the day. I do the slow exercise of standing, dressing, breakfast. I make the bed, brush my teeth, tidy up.
Anxiety evolves.
I sit, not for meaningful work, but to settle pending affairs. The everyday clutter of life should be simple. It used to be.
I’m surrounded by people who’s job is not to answer the phone for me. A digital assistant informs me, “We have no record of that account.” “Sorry, I do not understand your question.”“Please stay on the line. We value your patronage. You are number ninety-seven on our wait list. If you don’t wish to wait, leave your number and we will call you back.”
They never do.
“Take advantage of our easy-to-use. website.”
The site is un-navigable and contains a “help chat” that is cheerful but useless.
When I make contact with a human, I’m sent from department to department. Managers are baffled by my issue. Time runs out. The problem remains unresolved.
Weary and restless, I walk out in the crisp air where bicycles taunt, and the unfortunate remind me of my pettiness and inability to complete simple tasks. Undaunted, I purchase a “gourmet” salad for lunch in celebration of new resolve. I hurry home where fresh and persistent frustrations await. I scroll through 279 emails and delete, unsubscribe, report junk. That, at least, should be satisfying.
It’s not.
I attempt to create a nutritious and engaging evening meal with an indifferent oven, and a mother’s no-fail recipe baked in her prize pan. Despite the power of Mother invoked, I do not succeed.
I attempt to compose a few email pleas that will impress overseers of government and commerce. Expectation wanes in the moonlight.
Ice cream is my solace, peanut butter fudge sauce, chocolate chips, a scattering of nuts as homage to health.
I shower and settle in for cozy tv mysteries, featuring renowned character actors with with accents I only partially understand. I may occasionally doze.
Creativity is squandered on providing missing narrative.

This is the way it ends:
Suspense is spoiled by awareness that a version of this day will repeat itself tomorrow. The killer/spy/thief is rarely who was expected and if it is, disappointment ensues.
I’s time to enjoy uneven sleep until morning sun…
or not.