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by April Halprin Wayland

Every Tuesday night I tell myself:
tomorrow is Wednesday.

The dog park is closed on Wednesday.
Do not go to the dog park tomorrow.

And every Wednesday morning
I rub Eli’s tummy,

shuffle his nose
between my hands,

and sit on the bottom stair
to put on my socks.

Then we both run to the car
and drive to the dog park.

Every Wednesday.
Without fail.

Inside every memory lapse
is an optimist.

poem (c) 2011 April Halprin Wayland, all rights reserved

Poetry Prompt:

What can I say?¬† It’s true!

Now it’s your turn.¬† What habit do you do every day without thinking?¬† Write about it.¬† Or write about a time when you were on autopilot and shouldn’t have been.

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