It rings at four,
that damned alarm.
I squint and sigh,
groan and turn,
and clutch my pillow
with nails like claws.

I crack my neck,
I roll my head,
I open my eyes.
Seven minutes have passed.
I stretch and squirm,
and slowly slither out of bed.

When I finally pad downstairs,
quietly, quietly,
I find a kitchen to clean,
coffee to make,
lunches to assemble.

Your wake-up call
from the Sikorsky Bridge:
The cat is out,
your lunch is in the fridge.

You shouldn't have, you say,
you have to get to work.

I say: 
What else can I give you?

You say: 
You could stay in bed and love me.

I say: 
I can keep your kitchen clean.


Copyright© April 14, 2009 by Henry W. Farkas

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