Before First Light
Not even the stars shine
through the window
when I awake – tilted
from some surreal
dreamscape. I reach into
the emptiness beside me,
think you’re in the bathroom.
I stare into the darkness
until the cat jumps on me.
She kneads my chest.
The purr and pricks of claws,
a gesture of contentment. Deep
in the basement, the heater
kicks on, blowing warm
breath into the house.
It has been a cold spring. I rise
in the graying morning,
open the door so the cat
can exercise her hunter’s way,
then make breakfast for one.
