Poetry

Sunday Morning

Coffee first.

No, let the dogs out.

But pet them first,
watch Sam dig his face into the couch
while you scratch the other end.

Hear Molly's tail "whapping" the chair
and reach around to her with the free hand.

A cookie, and he is off to the yard.

She takes the couch.

Now, make the coffee.
Measure the beans, grind them.
Fill the water up to the line that says "4,"
a random number, for
what are four cups of coffee?

Fold the filter with stiff hands,
the same stiff hands that opened the door
that got the cookie,
that petted the dogs,
gingerly.

These hands cannot do all I want them to do,
struggle to open the microwave,
to heat the milk.

Words like "syndrome" and "inflammation"
mean little so early in the morning.

All you know is simple things are hard
and usually flexible fingers will not move
at your whim.

A cup of hot coffee warms them
begins to loosen them,
but only a little.

7 thoughts on “Sunday Morning”

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