that darkens with moisture, then dries
as the sun comes up; and steam that rims
the spout of the metal kettle condenses on
the surface of a spoon, as the woman bends
to stir sweetener into her coffee. And yesterday,
as she pulled away from traffic and into the church
parking lot, the sun glanced off the steeple to fracture
into green the day’s mosaic of near misses: you would never
even know, except from running a finger along the lower edge
of the bumper: how the truck, coming down the bridge, careened
into her as she waited at the intersection for the light to change
from red. Just enough, thank God, of an impact— hardly noticeable
except for thin jagged strips in the paint; then the muscle aches
when she woke hours afterward, walking back from the bathroom.
So she sat awhile in the pre-dawn hours at her desk, faint
slivers of light from the occasional passing car crossing
the gaps in the blinds. Downstairs, the desultory hum from
the fan in the broken refrigerator; beside it, the white
microwave oven with the loosened plastic handle. Through
the house, tiny parts of old machines gearing up for
another turn, tension springs coiling for the alarm.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.