Past tense

This past week has been rough on everyone because Rowan's been sick. The constant night wakings have taken a toll. So today I found myself thinking wistfully about my past life, when I would sometimes wake up at noon - yes, noon! - on weekend mornings. Here's a poem I wrote back then, about my leisurely single-gal weekend mornings in Boston.

Waking up in # 40, 1164 Boylston Street

The Saturday sun in especially bold
Bursting in rudely through wispy white
curtains, making itself at home
in the tiny apartment

The room fills up with light, gradually
Like the old, cracked bathtub with water
The dust motes are up to their old games
Flirting shamelessly with the sunbeams

The lilies stir up a scented frenzy
Hearing the wrens in the tree
The newspaper lies outside the door
Quivering with anticipation

Slippers wait impatiently to be warmed
They know the time is near
The coffee pot beckons furiously:
The milk is starting to get worried.

A collective sigh goes around the room
At the smell of Arabica in the air
The water rushes out, joyous, in the bathroom sink
The rug is a sunlit garden.