the robin can be heard
outside my window. He won’t be
disturbed. The felines don’t roam,
not for another hour or so. Morning

hasn’t broken open
like an egg in the kitchen. Coffee
isn’t brewing like the tempers that are
stewing in the rush-hour traffic, as if by magic

the cursing would move things
along. When things are crawling at
a snail pace, and I’ve yet to wash last night’s
make-up off my face

I can steady my breath. And
even drift off into space before
morning’s race.