A Run of Unusually Regular Days

Tricks for every wrinkle thrown
Your way, but you don’t need them,
Haven’t needed them for days.

The world’s on one of its runs
Of regular deception,
Regularity being

Itself the trick in this case.
You’ve been falling for a while
Asleep the same hour, awake

The same hour the next morning,
The same habits, the same food,
The same seasonal changes,

Gradual, almost stately,
As you rotate through your chores,
Laundry on Tuesday, grading

Anthropology Wednesday,
Afternoon drives each Sunday.
Last Sunday you passed a stag

On your way back from your drive,
Sort of an apparition,
Just there, all of a sudden,

Tines almost touching your car.
Had he jumped, you would have braked
Too late. The regular lie.