Un-sonnet-ed

I almost like #3 better like this:

The clouds hang low.
There's moisture in the air.
I wake an hour earlier today.
I'll do the same tomorrow, if I can bear the weight
of the new routine.
My daughters play and bicker as they brush their teeth.
My son is off to catch the bus.
He doesn't drive.
A mortal sin for teenagers.
The one thing I want most is coffee.
Lucky I've got someone making it so perfectly--sticky and sweet.
The morning is a knot of hair and limbs and shoes and socks and bread for sandwiches.
Until it's only me, driving.
The coffee's gone.
And what I've got is a poem.
Disjointed like the day ahead.