Inevitable | poetry

I shower, dry my hair, dress myself, kiss my husband and my little boy on the cheek

while they are still asleep,

and drive to work, putting on my makeup in the car.

I park, walk across the street, into my building and up the stairs to my office.

I say “good morning” to my assistant and open my door.

I walk past the empty chairs to my desk chair, sit down,

pull my keyboard on its sliding rest from under my desk and start my computer.

This is my ritual.

It may seem mundane – no different from a weekday morning

of any other nine-to-fiver, but it is different.

My ritual is one of preparation.

I am preparing for the inevitable.

Everyday I am walking to the gallows,

awaiting the moment that I arrive to find

the hangman sitting in the chair across my desk,

his hands folded patiently in his lap,

his eyes searching my face for any notion of surprise, my face showing none.

“I’ve been expecting you,” I will say.

He will grin.  “No, I’ve been expecting you.”

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