God breaks day break on me like an egg breaks on the side of a skillet. The cloudy egg white moves back and forth over the sunny yoke. They combine to make the morning sky and set a new day. I'll lie there unaware for seconds more. Until the eggy sky becomes brighter and I'm forced to make my way to the next room. When the light flicks on I'll brush my teeth. Pieces and parts each in different places complete a uniform for the day. Hat on the hook on the door in the room. Pants underneath my bed across from drawers where my shirts are found. I'll do everything but put on my shoes. When I walk I try to make my walk my prayer. I can't always promise when I say I will be better that I will be better. Diagonally through the wet grass, over the gritty pavement, past the bird poop canoes, and finally I walk beside the stocked shelves of the discount store. I see soaps, body wash, sunglasses, milk, cash registers, isles and isles of the unopened store. Security lights still dimmed, and doors still locked. Afterwards I'll approach the blossomed bushes and the tulips which highlight my final path. The smell is always the last encouragement towards work. The smell is also the last smell of freedom when I get out. Then I'll walk past the window with the soaps, past all the overpriced bikes, diagonally through the lot and grass, and up the street where my door greets me.