Hormones
Have me awake
Before dawn.
After an hour of silent pleading
Willing a return to slumber
I double squeeze his arm
And say
I love you; I’ll leave you alone to keep sleeping.
“Thank you.” He mumbled back.
So I descend the stairs
Rinse and clean my night guards
In the hall powder room
Store them in a spare ramekin
And begin my early morning routine.
Depress the Start button on the
Super automatic coffee machine
To get the gears whirring
And the steam building.
Unlatch the dishwasher door
Faint humidity from last night's cycle
Releases into the air.
I empty the bottom rack
heavy with mixing bowls and cutting boards and dinner plates.
Then the third rack in the rafters
filled with measuring spoons and flatware and lids.
Then the second rack
with the glassware and spatulas and jars.
In this order, always.
Now empty, the appliance yearns for more work.
'To be of use.'
I place in items for the next load
Gathering an errant paring knife
From last night’s honey crisp apple snack.
Placing in yesterday’s ramekin
From my dental devices
And gently closing the door;
That will do for now.
By the time I’ve tucked the last clean mug away in its cupboard
And refilled the washing unit
The coffee maker chirps and
shifts its LED display to announce:
“Select your drink.”
I lunge at the Large Coffee icon
Jab the button
Position a basketweave porcelain mug
Below the nozzles
And stand
- transfixed -
By the swirling umber
And creamy froth
Spurting
from the innards
Of this overly engineered
German machine.
Finally
Twelve and a half minutes
after leaving
the warmth of my bed
I have a hot cup in my hand
Filled with the promise
Of alertness
Of comfort
Of ritual.
I set my mug on the coffee table
By the bay window
And I plug in
My Sun Therapy light box.
Set a timer for thirty minutes
And stare down fifteen degrees
While I position myself
Fourteen inches from the light source.
I will my body to absorb
The energy and be encouraged
To synthesize vitamin D
So that my neurochemistry
Rebalances
And I can ascend out of
My darkness-induced winter stupor.
Under the harsh rays
Of my artificial sun
I tackle
And triumph over
Wordle.
I read the top article
In New York Times.
Our current president
Has taken
Another country’s president and first lady
And is now asserting
that our country
Will now run their country.
Enough news;
This world can be
Too much.
Close the app.
Set down my phone.
Pick up my French roast
Sip deeply
Feel the trickle of hot liquid
Descend into my gullet.
I revert to my bubble
In quiet reverence
Underneath my lamp
On my loveseat
Clutching my brew.
A Sunday sanctuary.
The universe can wait.
