Early in the Morning

Early in the morning,

My father’s heavy tread down the stairs,

To unbar the front door,

The rooster’s crow, our dog barking,

My mother cooking breakfast downstairs,

The aroma of bacon and new brewed coffee;

 

And as an adult,

In midtown Manhattan,

The rush of early morning traffic

Under my bedroom window,

Six-thirty a.m.

 

And now in this gentle nursing home,

The soft voices of nurses,

The soft passage of their uniforms,

While it is still dark out of doors.

 

I cannot use my limbs but my mind is clear,

Rehearsing what I will say to my son when he,

Visits me here.