The Butterfly Effect

Every morning, same routine, nothing changes.
There's safety in this, he thinks.
Waking before the alarm can sound, he drops to the floor,
holds a solid plank for two minutes as he studies
muted colors of the braided rug beneath him. It needs
a vacuum later. Pee, facial exercises in the mirror
to stave off wrinkles (hope), splash of cold water,
creaking stairs to cozy kitchen below.
Coffee for two, because you never know who might
stop in for a cup and conversation. No one ever does.
He's lived here a year, neighbors occasionally sighted
on the sidewalk, grunts for greetings exchanged, no more.
Mentally, he calculates loss of coffee, beans,
Amazonian deforestation times twelve supporting the caffeine
habits of a spectre. Ridiculous! No more! Thrift,. his
new companion, it's coffee for one from now on. He doctors it,
considers the day. Maybe he'll call his mother in Florida;
he should. Smugly self-congratulatory. Not only waste-conscious
but an excellent son as well! And then
a hesitant knock at the door, followed by a buzz,
as if two methods are more likely to produce results.
He rises, smiling, reflecting on the surprising power

of changing just a single thing in one's routine,
and goes to open the door.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012