Bird song lilts
through your open August window,
oranging the morning sky. It’s the first day of school.
Your sheets stick like a Kansas flytrap,
your hair is a blonde argument. No worry.
Mother downstairs prepares the coffee.
You eat eggs with garlic salt and
triangles of white toast sopping with butter.
Next thing you know, you’re in a hallway
of beige lockers that are drooling blood.
Normally, you tune out this kind of thing
and go about your gardening, but this time
your father pulls off his sleep apnea mask and says,
you all have beautiful mornings here.
Behind him orange light burns
the space between the pines
so bright you cannot see
the other houses. For once, you agree.
| Tim Greenup |
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