6 A.M.

Alarm goes off, six A.M. I hit snooze. Not ready to begin. Cereal in a bowl, no milk, like life's keeping score. Toast burned on one side, other side somehow still cold. Phone says rain. Window says worse. Sock on the floor I've been stepping over since Tuesday. I pick it up. Drop it in a different place. Progress. Coffee tastes wrong. Probably me. Clock keeps moving like we had an agreement. Six A.M. Day's already got a head start. Keys in my hand, can't find my keys. Six A.M. Whole world dressed and moving. I'm standing in the kitchen eating cereal dry like this was the plan. Neighbor starts his truck three houses down. Same cough. Same door slam. Somebody's dog is arguing with a garbage can. I check the fridge again. Still no milk. Worth a shot. One egg left, expiration date looks judgmental. I leave it there. We both know. Shoes by the door. One lace shorter. Don't know how. Don't wanna know. Six A.M. Day's already got a head start. Wallet in my coat, coat in the car. Six A.M. Everybody looks committed. I'm standing at the red light chewing half a granola bar like this was the plan. Guy in the next lane shaves at the stoplight. Woman behind him drinking something green. Bus driver looks awake. Suspicious. Radio says "make today count." I turn it down. Some mornings don't need a slogan. Some mornings need milk. Nine minutes. That's what snooze gives you. Nine little stolen minutes you can't actually use. Too short to sleep. Too long to ignore. I hit it twice anyway. Eighteen minutes poorer. Still felt rich. Six A.M. Day's already got a head start. Sun coming up like nobody asked it to. Six A.M. Whole world clocked in early. I'm pulling out the driveway with cereal in my teeth and one shoe tied wrong. Maybe life's keeping score. Maybe not. Either way, I'm late. Alarm goes off, six A.M. Tomorrow, I'll probably hit snooze again.