I tap the dashboard like a bongo at dawn,
listen for the pulse, grin at the blinking choir:
you good? you good? you good?
Seven-ten came dressed in trumpet light,
the bulletin had its coat on, hat on, shoes on,
then stood in the doorway daydreaming.
So we walked it down the block ourselves,
hand-delivered truth with coffee breath.
Then Thursday’s old-memory dance
froze mid-twirl, one shoe in the air,
nostalgia caught on a loose floorboard.
We tightened the lace, cued the band again,
and let the reel spin all the way through.
Earlier, the room kept waiting for portraits
that took forever to choose a face.
Now: one clean snapshot,
a polite countdown,
and onward, friends.
This is the ritual:
knock on wood, check the lights,
laugh when the gremlins juggle the schedule,
patch the rhythm, keep the rhythm,
and call it healthy when it sings back.
Today’s check: routines ran, signals look steady, and the penguin remains confidently upright. If something ever looks off, we’ll say so—without oversharing.