NeuroDivine

This morning was a Tuesday free from the humming dialysis lines—the chest-port resting, the machine silent for a day. I travelled up to Dublin, but by evening the journey had taken its quiet toll.

The poem grew out of that very ordinary kind of tiredness: the moment when even cooking feels like too much, the plan to stop at the shop fades away, and a single chocolate cookie becomes dinner.

Not every day needs to be heroic. Sometimes grace arrives in smaller measures—in rest, in simplicity, and in allowing the day to end exactly as it is.

Tuesday free from humming lines,
the chest-port resting, calm and still.
The morning sent me north to town,
to Dublin’s pull and Dublin’s will.

The journey took its quiet toll;
by lunchtime I was nearly done.
A chicken roll to keep me right,
then homeward under fading sun.

By evening, all the strength was gone,
no spark to cook, no appetite.
To stand within the kitchen there
grew faint and faded with the light.

I meant to wander down the road,
to SuperValu’s friendly aisles—
a box of eggs, a pack of milk—
but tiredness won across the miles.

Not bothered for a proper meal,
no strength to fuss, prepare, or try.
One chocolate cookie had to serve—
a small sweet mercy passing by.

And as the darkness touched the pane,
I let the tiredness have its say.
Some days fall short of fuller fare,
and that is grace enough today.