You stop for a moment,
stand erect on the front porch.
A pungent pine clears the air
while you watch the neighbor
in their gold minivan
drive off again, with their kids to school.
And you listen to the golden retriever
who barks to let you know
he does not recognize you.
The coffee pot is empty,
as you have slurped the last drop.
You forgot how many cups
you had prepared or drunk.
You are almost lightheaded on this day,
of returning
to the blank slate of a life
waiting to be drawn in.
You eat over the sink,
no one else is looking,
no one else needs feeding.
The red cardinal cannot see you so well
in your kitchen perch
so you spy on him,
as if he has a life
more exciting than yours.
You sweep under the rug,
clean the counters,
and detail the garage
so one could eat off the floor.
But you will learn to reach out,
leave the crumbs
for someone else.
You are storing up
fat, time, energy.
(For) what is needed now
is strength
for what is new.
by Annette Januzzi Wick
Three Arch Press