Schedules I like but I abhor changes;
call me old-fashioned, ritualistic.
Hot under Nautica collar, I flush
even if the change is a minor one.
Doubt it not: changes abide in this world,
under glare of sun, or on a plateau
leaving little suspicion they are real;
each new change is a new knotted muscle.
Color lost from face, expression stoic;
heartburn abundant, or an itchy rash.
Another bitten lip, a sigh, a plea
nasal passages snug with congestion.
Glares from eyes disgusted with the doing,
enough that tear ducts open extra wide.
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