It started with Bach.
Then I pressed snooze,
throat still slick with sick.
Ten minutes later the alarm
played through me again.
My mother is a clock inside me.
Look at the books lining
our brick walls until my eyes
adjust. Thank God for the heat.
Milosz, Donne, Kerouac, Tennyson, Plato.
Candles burnt down.
I stare at the single pan sitting lidded on the stove.
The light glows on curve of handle,
belly of metal.
We are all waiting for something.
I should be walking out the door awake.
Two pint glasses, one mason jar, a small cup,
an empty PBR can and a sticky mug
are crowded on the tea cart next to me.
My morning commute.
The aprons hang on kitchen twine above the window.
It continues with a toothbrush.
Pants, shoes, a rain coat.
It continues with waking.