Poem for Mondays

Somehow
at this time of life
the day seems to go out of focus
so easily.

Too much coffee
or maybe too little.

You feel as though
in some way
you haven't quite connected
with reality.

It's all -- somewhere a little removed.
You run on tramlines of routine,
vaguely baffled by your own steadfastness.

The things you used to love
no longer give you the same pleasure.
The things which were a chore
are so familiar
they no longer
even bore you.

Voices on the radio
talk of interesting things
and play new pieces of music
but it seems to come
from a space station
in orbit
around some other planet.

The calendars and diaries
tell of an old year ending
and a new year beginning,
but there are none
of the markers you were used to.

Where are the cards
from those uncles and aunts,
so punctual every year?
All gone, every one of them.
And you realize that now
you are the older generation.