A poem by Shelly Reuben

We get up each day,

In the usual way.

Feet first on the rug on the floor.

We open our eyes,

But our subconscious cries

Sleep. Sleep. Give me more. Give me more.

Well … As much as I dread

Getting out of my bed,

In fact, there are things I must do.

Why? I don’t know.

But “Get on with the Show”

Is a rule that I cannot eschew.

Thus, I thrust out my chin.

And I think “Win! Win! Win!”

The battle to do what I must.

I accept that this role,

Coupling body and soul

Keeps my brain from corroding to rust.

So … what challenge is there,

That now I can dare

Lest my virtue sinks into the mud?

Breakfast to cook.

Then start a new book.

With homicide, mystery, and blood.

If writing’s your work

Pen-to-page you can’t shirk,

And your crime must be complex and shrewd.

A noose or gun;

A mallet to stun;

Or a tea pot where poison is brewed.

Gardening, too.

Is something I do.

And it takes lots of muscle and time.

Planting and raking.

Pruning and staking.

Mulch, fertilizer and lime.

I almost forgot

To add into the pot,

I must exercise every damn day.

Abdominal crunches.

Cross body punches.

Nor can we omit … the plié.

All things must be done,

And though some of it’s fun,

The routine of each day is a chore.

But being alive.

And expecting to thrive.

Requires this “investment” … and more.

Self-disciple, true.

Is what we must do.

There are days, though, I’d rather, instead.

Be less of a rock.

Turn off the clock,

And stay, like a lump, in my bed!

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2025. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, vibasit www.shellyreuben.com