Mr. Show-Up-Streak — Day 1,247 of Doing the Boring Thing

Lyrics

Five-thirty AM.
The house is a held breath.
The streetlights are still on.
Another day to meet himself.

The chair has his shape now.
The mug is chipped on the rim, says it holds the words better.
Window's black, showing his own face back.
Just him and the blinking cursor.
Page three hundred and twelve.
Nobody's waiting on it. Nobody's asked.
Just the quiet covenant made a long time past.

Day one thousand, two hundred forty-seven.
Of doing the boring thing.
No trumpets sound from heaven.
No witness to the discipline he brings.
Just the showing up.
The quiet turning on the light.
The slow filling of the cup.
Another small, unglamorous fight.

The laces on the shoes are frayed.
The soles are worn down to the soul.
A river stone in his right-hand pocket,
a promise to make himself whole.
The slap-slap on the pavement
is the only applause he needs.
Past the same houses, the same sleeping trees.
Planting the same small, invisible seeds.

Day one thousand, two hundred forty-seven.
Of doing the boring thing.
No trumpets sound from heaven.
No witness to the discipline he brings.
Just the showing up.
The quiet turning on the light.
The slow filling of the cup.
Another small, unglamorous fight.

The finish line will cheer for a moment.
The reader will turn the last page.
They'll see the product, not the payment.
The quiet war he had to wage.
Not against a dragon, not against a foe.
Just the part of him that whispered "no".
The part that wanted one more hour of sleep.
A promise is a hard thing to keep.

Day one thousand, two hundred forty-eight... is tomorrow.
He closes the laptop.
He takes off the shoes.
The sun is just starting to borrow
color for the sky.
He'll be here.