it is 3am

and the birds
have no decorum.

my husband
is snoring in our bed
and i haven’t slept
in twenty four hours.

our home, ninety-six
years old, groans, worries
against my cracking bones
as i unpack the work
of the day:

today,
i will read a book,
from start to end.

i will bake loaves of bread,
my sated starter
in deep ferment.

i will feed the cats.

i will wash the dishes
souring in predawn light,
scour plates and pans.

i will crochet in the
viscous heat, a scarf
in autumn colors and
winter weight.

it will wait.

i will pick up my phone
and deliberate whiling
away some hours.

after a while,
i will put it down.

i will lounge on the couch,
idly arch my back for soporific effect,
a lame attempt.

i will spend a quarter hour
watching feral cats
hiss and preen.

i will grind coffee
beans, smelling sweetly
of malt and cloves.

i will tend our garden
with a leaky hose.

i will grow impatient.

i will listen to the road
hum to life, my husband
too, bleary in the light.

finally waking.

05/23/2016

Posted on 05/24/2016
Copyright © 2024 Christina Gleason