Prosaic versification

I drink the cof­fee the husband’s made for me
at the same time I’m dry­ing my hair and scan­ning the Times for the head­lines.
Eight a.m. is too early to work,
at least that’s what I think.
Get­ting going takes every­thing in me some morn­ings.
The cof­fee, though– it does make a dif­fer­ence.
(He’s the hus­band because he is singular.)

The drive is three park­ways, con­nected by three rotaries and some mis­cel­la­neous roads.
They’re real park­ways, medi­ans and road­sides
lined with high-arching trees,
well-colored in gold and fire-red, peach and oak ochre and dun.
The part of me that can’t just enjoy the moment I’m in
looks for­ward to win­ter and ici­cles hang­ing from dark­ened, wet bark.
(It’s some­how strange that weedy sumac is the bright­est of all.)

At lunch, I eat my cheese sticks and Ida Red apple.
The orchard was out of the kind that I wanted–
the Idas at least at the merit of shar­ing a name with my Grandma.
It’s a good a rea­son as any– bet­ter, on fur­ther reflec­tion.
The apple is tart– crisp– deli­cious– even bet­ter than the orig­i­nal Ida.
The cheese sticks are just cheese sticks.
(I like cheese sticks just fine.)

That whole “full moon the­ory” about Emer­gency Rooms and crazy behav­ior–
the same thing hap­pens in book­stores.
Except instead of peo­ple going to Belle­vue,
it’s three cus­tomers in one day with glass eyes or five in a row greet­ing me with Irish accents
or peo­ple who don’t think the health code applies to their pock­et­book dogs while they buy their tall mac­chi­atos
or say things like “I don’t read the back of reciepts” yet still want their return or exchange.
(I prob­a­bly shouldn’t have said “Well, that’s why we put it there, we know you won’t read it,” but I just can’t regret it.)

The younger girls, post-college, pre-heartbreak–
I can tell, though Id’ve asked any­way– laugh in the break­room.
Some­times they even laugh at my jokes, and the fact that I watch lit­tle tv earns me end­less respect.
Even explain­ing we were too cheap to buy cable when first we were mar­ried,
then just got out of the habit, doesn’t dis­suade them from think­ing I’m cool.
There’s a part of me that wants to let them down now,
so we won’t all have to wait on the dis­ap­point­ment of my being human.
(I find I don’t wish I was their age again.)

Some­one wants the new author’s con­tin­u­a­tion of Hitchhiker’s Guide.
Some­one else rolls their eyes, shakes their head, con­demns the whole genre.
Book peo­ple have opin­ions, even about tow­els and forty-two.
When my shift’s over, I’ll drive home, sit on the couch, catch up on the world.
I’ll make some­thing tasty for sup­per, read, talk to the hus­band, write, go to bed.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
(There’s some­thing to be said for prose, after all.)