sitting in the morning window

dawn on the heels of the night

I can see the house on the hill

now that the leaves have gone.

two yellow squares

with people somewhere inside

I see them, in my minds eye

early enough for pyjamas I think

water boiling in the kettle

which is actually a small electronic machine

which whirs and sputters some hot black liquid,

and she’s in her underwear, stabbing mascara on her eyelids

a wrinkled suit lays on the bed

she feels heartburn shooting through her chest

from the bowl of children’s cereal she swallowed too quickly

something with geometric cubes of sugar in it

coloured and shaped to resemble gems

and she doesn’t even have kids.

her partner laying in bed rolls over and picks up their phone

I imagined a smart phone,

but we could make it a landline that had just been ringing,

she picks that up

and drops the receiver into the bucket of water set beside the bed in the night

all due in part

to the asshole who works in the office across the hall

who kept coming in to talk to her

about sports, about politics, about nothing, always nothing

with his red running nose, and his full face, flush and sweaty.

her head goes back under the covers as the first bits of pink light stream into the morning sky

her wife slams the front door and she’ll be 45 minutes too early for work, again

as she hops on her bike and scoots past the ducks perched on her garden fence.

two images emerge in the window on the left, its a man and a woman,

probably in their eighties, retiree’s I think

they let their dog out and it continues to bark at squirrels until the sky is full of the yellow morning sun

I turn my thoughts back inside and sip my tea which is now cold.

maybe just some toast this morning.