Morning Routines

There is a tunnel under my bed that leads down to the stale earth beneath the house where I live. Sometimes I like to curl naked on that cold ground with my cheek pressed tightly against it; I can hear the earth’s laboured breathing, its wheezing and muffled whispers. And I ask it questions, questions about the spiders and the rats, about sickness and age. Sometimes I ask it to help me with the football tipping competition, but the old earth really isn’t so good at picking a winner.