Almost Autumn

There aren't really words to describe the effort involved in getting up in the morning each day.

It's not that it's cold.
Or hot.
It's not that I don't want to.
Or that I'm not interested in my plans.
Or that I don't have plans.
It's not making a choice about clothes,
Or breakfast,
Or hair.
Or shoes.
It's not even that I don't deserve to get up.
Or don't deserve to stay in bed.
It's not knowing that I didn't do the readings,
That I won't get to the lecture,
And may not make the class.
Or that the assignment is due tomorrow,
Or this evening,
Or next week.
It's not even disappointing the people around me,
Trying to think,
Or not.
Or anything at all.

It's a just get up. 
Swing legs over the edge. 
(perhaps wonder if it's a pier, or a cliff, or a bridge)
And sometimes I can.
And sometimes I can't.
I'd know what to do with a shan't or won't.
But that's not what it is.

So I don't.