Routine was the theme He'd wake up, wash and pour himself into uniform Something he hadn't imagined being As the merging traffic passed He found himself staring down At his own hands Not remembering the change Not recalling the plan Was it...? He was okay But wondering About wandering Was it age? By consequence? Or was he moved sleight of hand? Mondays were made to fall Lost on a road he knew by heart It was like a book he read in his sleep, endlessly