Bad Choice

Bad choice this morning.
I should have chosen door number two.

 

My invitation to the day arrives about four a.m.
Red numbers flip all night, glowing 2s and 3s and 6s.
When the magic circuits align, an eerie tone trying to
   sound like a bell, jars the potted plant and sends
   the dog into spasms.

 

The irony is that I can predict, with stunning accuracy,
   the prizes behind both doors.  And I still chose number one!

 

The remarkable reward behind door number two is a
   combination of soft red blossoms in the big blue pot,
   rich green vines clinging to the stone wall, colorful
   birds splashing water as they happily bathe in the
   large water bowl, peace and morning serenity.
Pull the curtains back and there you have life-giving
   tranquility.  I know it, but I chose door number one,
   this electronic box I hold in my hand.

 

The penalty for choosing this door is the unnerving
   portrayal of bizarre life on the globe.  A spoonful of
   name calling and hateful anger, a gulp of scandal,
   another of tensions and fears.  Mother used to tell
   me to chew each mouthful at least ten times.  It
   doesn't help.  I still want to heave my Cheerios.

 

No one to blame but myself.
Bad choice.
I should have chosen door number two.