Saturday mornings broke apart
the pattern of our days.
The steam from your coffee
split around your face, stumbled
rising, vanished in a slap of sunlight.
The paper rattled hard against
the flannel cuff of your robe,
rubbed against maroon fabric,
wrestled past the dark hairs
on your extended wrist
as you turned each page. News
meant murder, thieving politicians,
factories closed, cars driven
off the road, not the dimpled
chatterings of some small
nine year old. The robe lay
cinched tight around your waist,
barely parted at your knees.
Your leather slippers held
a hard worn shine.
Not a crumb fell.
I stayed in bed and pulled
the covers up and dreamed
my waking dreams.

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