The Weekly Commuter

You forced the sunrise
on me, little girl. I’d rather
be asleep
but since we’re up
let’s open the shade—
watch the passing storm
harass the trees.
Streetlights still burn
against the gray light
blowing up the street.
Opposite us,
a light clicks on—
a neighbor
about to leave.
As she hurries to her car,
wind full in her hair,
you decide
enough with the scenery—
time to eat.
The cat agrees.

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In favor
of the bright and fresh
I’ve heard
enough to burst
a fishing family’s
best net—heaving
with slippery fish.
While bracing, briny winds
whip me into frenzied life
as much as the next
sea maid, the dark and dim
welcome warmer feelings—
I’ve already drawn
the curtains,
pulled down
the guest quilt,
turned two loved friends away.

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Okay. Maybe the next few poems I write and post aren’t going to change the world, but hopefully they’ll give your brain a nice little poem-y vacation. I’m planning to post at least once a week again, come what may, so be prepared for some FRESH NEW QUALITY COMING SOON.

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A dry leaf,
a baby asleep,
a kettle thinking steam,
a pot
of steeping tea,
the mail
you set out
for me.

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