Weekday Mornings

The clock says it’s time to get up.
I make sure I am awake before
my feet touch the stairs, there is no
room for error as evidenced by
an inopportune nighttime sledding
adventure in a flannel nightgown.
The fish are begging; I feed them
as there are no decisions to be made.
Steel cut oats, thick cut oatmeal,
homemade bread, fruit, coffee, tea,
jam, butter, granola, milk;  I wish
the table were set for me with the
tea pot I bought in Paris, warmed
milk inside, the newspaper opened
to my favorite section of the day,
pre-decided.  I manage somehow
to make these decisions being safely
in my kitchen with its black and
white tiles, which, if I’m lucky,
do not stick to my feet.