Modern Matins

July 20, 1995|By Margaret Doyle

The night clicked-clocked itself away.

At last, pale light began to gray

the windows.

She arose.

Slippered, she crossed the shadowed floor.

Downstairs,

cold fluorescence hums and flares.

With a rubber gasket sigh,

the refrigerator door

gives up eggs and butter.

Soon, hiccup,

hiccup,

abrupt eruptions,

syncopated,

percolated,

erupt,

erupt.

A mound of brown

gritty grounds

inhales steam,

exhales sound.

The cupboard opens with a thunk,

the china chinks and clatters.

The self-announcing toast jumps up

all ping and crumbs and scatter.

The orange sun pours from the orange juice can.

Staccato,

eggs break and bespatter in the black frying pan.

Glistening with the morning dews,

the news,

foreign and domestic,

awaits

beside the plates

the peeling of the plastic.

Baltimore Sun Articles
|
|
|
Please note the green-lined linked article text has been applied commercially without any involvement from our newsroom editors, reporters or any other editorial staff.