At dawn, I wait at the kitchen window <br />while coffee brews and the paperboy <br />makes his long, lazy descent <br />from the top of the street, throwing <br />loosely, without looking left or right. <br />I’m eight again, playing dolls with my friend, <br />who has long blond hair and a younger sister <br />to play with my sister. Their parents <br />are named Kermit and Robin, like the frogs, <br />and at the top of the stairs, between the girls’ <br />bedrooms, is a framed photograph of them <br />kissing at their wedding. <br />Everywhere I go in their house, I’m aware <br />of the photo, like a raw, red heart <br />beating right out in the open. In the afternoon, <br />we are in her room, making baby dolls sleep <br />while the grown-up dolls kiss, and there is music <br />from below. We creep out to the staircase <br />and peer over the edge, down into the living <br />room, where her father is holding her mother <br />in his arms and they are dancing, joking <br />and laughing, until they glance up and see us <br />and break apart, still laughing. <br /> <br />Now, years later, the paperboy rides away, <br />pedaling in a smooth arc around the corner <br />onto Maple. He leaves me <br />in piercing silence at the kitchen window, <br />blinking in the pale morning light <br />while Kermit and Robin dance <br />a tender pas de deux on the front lawn <br />and you go on sleeping, <br />miles away in the bedroom upstairs.<br /><br />Leah Browning<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/morning-37/
