The morning was a write-off—I watched it go
from behind the coffee, nine to noon, the slow
deterioration of intention, the plan
I had for the earlier self, that man
who’d scheduled six for the alarm and four
projects for before-lunch. The door
to the productive morning swung shut. I watched.
The day felt already botched.
Then nine at night the motivation showed—
showed up like a guest who’d slowed
to stop for cigarettes and arrived
three hours late, cheerful, and alive,
ready to work. The nine-PM
surge: my system. I stem
the frustration—I’ve learned how I run.
The motivation arrives late. Get it done.
I’ve tested every method for the morning person—
the five-AM alarm, the cold-water immersion,
the first-thing-right routine, the early attempt—
it holds a week and then the whole thing’s spent,
back to the familiar nine-PM emergence.
I’ve stopped fighting the divergence.
The late-arriving motivation is the real
available to me. The deal: I feel
the surge at nine and I follow it, I work
the two hours of the actual, I shirk
the guilt of the missed morning. The night
productivity is productivity. Right
now, this sentence, this list, this
clarity at ten—the late motivation: bliss.
I run on what I have. The late
arrival: still arrival. I’ll take it. It’s great.