Wake Up

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.

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About amyleighcutler

Writer, dancer, vagabond extraordinaire
This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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