Every morning you woke before me
ahead of the sun you brushed your hair and
chose your clothes for work: the muted
red sheath with matching sweater or a skirt
with white blouse, stockings, loafers—
your look more collegiate than school marm.
You’d go downstairs and make coffee, toast,
then set out lunch bags prepped the night
before, our kitchen radio playing Top-40 tunes:
Motown or John Denver drifting up to us
as we took turns in the bathroom to start the day.
Is that why mornings hurt now, why you
push a button before dawn to call
staff to your side? No easy songs to hum
as the sky lightens. The red dress long gone.
Laurel Smith lives in Vincennes, Indiana. She finds the best poetry by listening, especially listening outdoors. Smith’s poems have been featured in New Millenium Writings, Flying Island, Natural Bridge, Tipton Poetry Journal, JAMA, English Journal, and Mapping the Muse.