Dave Bonta's poem sketches a single day in eight short lines, and the whole thing feels like a shrug. Each part of the day gets one word for what happens in it: sex in the morning, accounts in the afternoon, being cross in the evening. The pairing is blunt and a little comic, because intimacy and bookkeeping sit side by side as if they were equally ordinary chores.
The last two lines turn the mood. The speaker is "too at home to walk," which suggests a life so settled and comfortable that it has stopped moving. Home is cozy, but it also seems to trap the speaker. Nothing here is dramatic. The tone is dry, tired, and quietly self-aware, as though the speaker can see the rut and doesn't quite escape it. The title, "Ingrained," fits: habits have worn so deep into the day that the speaker barely notices, or can't change, the pattern. The feeling is mild resignation, with a faint wry humor.