An Ordinary Morning Elise Pure
I would rather rise after the sun,
but find myself removed from
bed folds to folded clothes
ironing out the morning with a handi-note
and day old toaster strudel.
This morning’s score a classical piece
of humming radiator,
ancient coffee maker, and
your half-note breathing
underneath my sheets.
But it stops when the door creaks.
Then some smothered response about
the scientific benefits of soft skin and sleep
muffled by the metronome above the bed
that sadly insists I resist your brown waves
altogether, as you slip back away, and I
mutter some words about the weather.