Green Room

As comfort, night time malted drink,
a pattern followed, by the clock,
without good reason to disown --
why would I end the day alone?

I’m told that change is all around,
I’m not an island to myself,
or I’ll be simply left behind,
which is my lot -- as I remind.
Change marks growth, from seed to bloom,
but do core values yet remain,
the mannerisms, polite style,
courtesy, respect, second mile?

While yes, there’s much so strange to me,
it is routine, my leading star,
for I need anchor, taking strain,
secure hold, less their binding chain.
They have my ways mechanical,
when customary more my frame;
I sense my five alone will guide,
but well-worn paths from synapse hide?

Now dado, carpets, green I see;
this path I’m sure goes to my room.
But when the bell chimes in my head,
the corridors are meat and bread.
So here I am at bed and board,
with folks uncertain who they are;
that night time malted drink my own,
so I’ll not end this day alone.