To interrupt my routine with change would be a disaster
I have coffee, I eat various substances, I work machines,
I write things down for some reason.

The pages in my journal keep flipping back to the day
I wrote about the Moon,
There is a round coffee ring on that page

There is a clothespin I use to keep it open to a blank page
But I know the book struggles against it, I can see
The paper bulge and warp to be free of constraint

It takes a while, the white page exposed, before
It settles down and is compliant with being open like that
I will not write on that page, maybe never, nothing would fit
That is the routine.

Yes, eventually I write in black with a special pencil
I write that I have broken the binding of my journal
It was necessary, it was always necessary

But I kept hoping my journal would learn
And adopt my routine as its own
Lie flat as a dead thing as I scratch and hatch at it.