Soft dawn takes on the bedroom,
and the midnight blue curtains
burn with young sun.
I peel back my thin sheets,
movements mute and discreet,
and I creep, bare feet padding
across cool tile
toward wafting coffee.
And there she’d be,
sitting in her kitchen, sipping
Irish-creamed caffeine.
Trite fiction in hand,
she’d be reading-
she was always reading.
“Morning. Up so early?”
She clambers off her bar stool
to brew a cup for me
and asks I find the clicker
(the remote to her flatscreen).
Then, the house sleeps
while we talk over weddings
and wealthy house hunting.
This morning,
I think of these mornings.
How someone else now
sits where she sat,
and my kitchen is empty-
How I can’t
write that time back-
And how, if I could,
I’d recall everything.
pm poetry 