I sit in the dark with my coffee.
I sit here and wait for the light.
I increasingly need to wake early,
The one need my body can’t fight.
The coffee, forever, is last grounds.
I pile them on yesterday’s heap.
Our compost is black with its dark dust
And yellow, most yellow, my teeth.
I throw one more load in the washer.
I push-button “on” one, in dry.
I stare at the mountain before me:
My laundry, clean up to the sky;
I think that I hear a small whimper.
I rush to the nursery, to check,
To caress that sweet fontanel softness,
That cuddling lump, on my neck;
But the nursery holds nothing, but stillness,
And the bedrooms, this end of the house,
Preserve a most curious childhood,
Museum-like, without a pulse;
And I hear a clock, somewhere, is ticking.
And I cringe, at my wrinkles and flab,
And imagine the sweet sounds of children,
Calling ‘Mom!”, from our sad cul-de-sac.
Copyright 2019 Andrea LeDew