are these who follow unsteadily
from the warm bed with pillows
skewed and blankets shed
to the cold kitchen floor to turn
the coffee on before even the dawn?

Who’s lonely steps
are these who shuffle through yesterday’s
waste in an ungated pace to cut the English
muffin in half and then with frail hands
open the vitamins before her morning bath?

Who’s lonely steps
are these who trudge to her empty seat
waiting in the dark for her
to draw upon experience –
that the deliverance will dance in hopes there is
a chance this one will make a difference.