Some Sort of Sunrise
In the kitchen there are six eggs cracked in a bowl, shell-less.
My husband wakes after me, his hair, a curly thicket. We eat
the mystery eggs with cheese, the yoke dripping on The New York Times.
Outside our neighbor’s kids play in the mud of our yard, their
bare legs, thorn scratched and strong. The drunk down the street
is blasting Bob Dylan again, and the kids sing along to Lay Lady Lay.
We don’t charge their parents very much for babysitting.
(a sevenling, and the end of the half marathon for me, it feels so strange.)