A Riposte, perhaps

By Daniel P. Stokes

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Blithely unaware
of espionage,
I packed my beach bag
(books in sequence, paper,
pencils, specs in separate slots)
till - as if a gate I hadn’t
opened banged behind me -
“You’re slowing down.” Detached, 
peremptory, “Half a week
It took you this time” - sigh -
“To slip into a routine.”
I shuffled through the doorway’s
sudden sunglare, “Ready?”
Then, leaving her to follow
in her time, dumped bag in boot.

I wasn’t irked but thought,
she’s got this wrong. You slip
into ruts. Routines
are created to do the things
you want the way you want to.
And, Madam Mistress Mine,
perpend: each morning
as you wake and press,
against me, I wrap
my arm beneath your arms
across your breast and, synched,
we wallow in our warmth.
If routine must be ruled
innately vicious,
this warrants censure.