Monday's
Poem
©
Barbara Pelman
In
It Again
Morning. Drag
sleep from my bones, creak
to the shower, fumble
with faucets, each step longing
to return to bed.
But the day must begin, and I
in it.
What
alternatives?
A headstone
on a forgotten hill, my name
crossed out of phone books, an estate sale
of unmarked boxes.
In
the mirror:
dark eyes, energetic
curls, skin in need
of ironing.
On
the breakfast table:
a porcelain plate,
linen napkin,
the coffeemaker half-filled.
I
open the front door
let the day unravel
the long scarf of details
to a small knot;
tuck the silence
into a back pocket
for lunch. |