Tuesday Morning
by Stacey Margaret Jones

The sound of the foot strike
syncopates with the tread-belt rotation.
The fans labor on, the blinds form an open
hand against the morning sun rays
hitting the house round the wavering
splay of the untrimmed tree in the yard.

Three dogs loll
two large, one small,
on the den’s Berber beige,
positioned to stare lazily at the running
legs going nowhere without lifting their heads,
without closing their eyes.

This close place within this real estate,
late summer Tuesday
sprawling out ahead,
running in place before the day grows.

In another room,
a bell rings familiar,
a prize is won,
the smell of fat and salt
on a plate.
“I made you some bacon,” he says,
appearing in the archway.
I notice him only
by triangulating the dogs’ angles
as they roll their faces toward food.
“It’s waiting for you in the microwave.”

The big, busy dog barks at a child walking to school,
the air conditioning hums awake,
bursts down on me.
I can feel the vibration of the pipes coursing
water to his shower as he prepares
to meet his day.

Ordinary, but not easy,
when the rest of the world waits cold and hard and far below.
every note struck in the domestic morning
is a delicate ping of life on a wire.

Illya's Honey Literary Journal

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