the work of the day by Christina Gleasonit 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 © 2025 Christina Gleason
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