Between sunrise and walking out the door,
we wake in quiet. Slow steps drag the slick
wood floors, then build into stress and scurry.
Our shoulders miss each other as we dart
across the hall, rushing, streaks of color
blend and blur. Dashing in and out of rooms,
we are graceful, swinging arms and short strides
crowd inside the narrow hall. Sometimes
we get distracted, our mornings sound like
the crash of Legos and race cars, the light
switch on and off, the television flickers
and hums, the water runs. Between current
events and bickering, you and I shift
and dodge for a glance in the mirror.
The bathroom seems small today, we forgot,
On the way out the door, somehow, I fit
one more thing in my arms. My left,
a right angle, uncurls, heavy round bundle
laughing or crying, my right shoulder draped
with bags, hand holds umbrella, and tiny
brown fingers, clinched tight. Between
baby gurgle and spit, the click and bend
of my heels, his small steps quicken. You wait,
as I grab one more thing, then out the door.
But what if sunrise were different?
If morning stirred with calm, breakfast, a kiss
before brushing our teeth, thirty more minutes
in bed. No hurry, confined to the second hand.
The sun paints the floor a warm streak, our feet
golden, and facing each other. We stand there,
late today, still on time for tomorrow.