It’s not hard, but the loss persists.
Every morning there is one less,
As though my morning’s calculation,
Based upon the shaving mirror, was too optimistic.
If a package holds 100
Then each should represent a year (not a day),
Allowing for a life fully lived or wasted,
Assuming there is a difference.
Of course there are ways of fighting the inevitable:
I can empty yesterday’s grinds and reuse the filter,
Or go out for morning coffee.
Both stand to play havoc with my natural order.
When I first open a package of filters,
It is the dawning fof the rest of my life.
I have survived another night,
And the day starts with life unlimited… almost.
I hesitate before cutting the plastic wrapper
Then place the first filter in the coffeemaker.
It is no longer limitless,
And I am one percent less than perfect.
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