Morning Routine

The hair dryer wakes me.
She’s already showered
and fed the dog.
She rushes in
sending the towel
crumpling to the bed
and begins to dress.
The bra goes on.

I wince, knowing I could never get my arms behind my back like that.  I stretch like a cat, napping in a sunbeam.  Checking the time, I turn on the weather and hobble to my feet.  She’s already gone.

Back in the bathroom
the makeup goes on.
From zero to gorgeous
in under thirty.
She curls her hair
with a torture device
so terrifying
I won’t even touch it.
She kisses me
telling me there’s coffee
in the pot, and she’s off.

I decide shaving can wait so I brush my teeth and throw on some clothes.  The television says sunny, so the coat stays on the floor.  Coffee in hand, I turn off the pot, and I’m gone.


Tim Hatch lives in a secret volcano headquarters somewhere in the South Pacific, where he controls the world economy and writes confessional poetry about his disappointing childhood.

His poetry has been published in MungBeing, East Jasmine Review, The Pacific Review, The Vehicle, Touch: The Journal Of Healing, Apeiron Review, and he is the recipient of the 2014 Felix Valdez Award.

He finds writing about himself in the third person to be an overtly seductive invitation to tell lies.

He once captured a French Eagle at Talavera.