Rising in darkness, on tiptoes to the bathroom where clothes hang waiting,
I close the door soundlessly before
the light goes on,
a courtesy I'll expect
when it's he who has to set the alarm
and I who gets to stretch, catlike and alone,
enjoying the tail-end of a lovely dream.
Make-up and hair, contacts and cologne.
How many others are up at this hour,
maneuvering arms through overall straps,
headed not to Florida car but Carolina barn,
to sit on squat stools, slap the milker's rump playfully,
deftly pull her enormous teats,
telling her a dream that hasn't yet faded
they would never dare tell human ears?
No perfume intrudes on this crisp morning air:
tangy animal smells that mean
money in the bank, food on the table.
Steam rises off the warm bucket,
heavy with cream to serve with biscuits.
I'd like some in my coffee, but it's much too far to drive.
I'm running late as it is.
(c)Ellen Gillette, 2012
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