"Sorry, I didn't get that," Siri says loudly from the table next to mine.
"I didn't say anything," snaps the woman with short black hair, black sweatsuit, duck-yellow raincoat slung on the chair behind her.
Her coffee partner looks up from her Kindle across the table at her. "The doctor's office was so cold this morning."
Woman with short white hair scrolls, makes a comment about exam rooms, says, "Mike Pence is quoted as saying Michelle Obama is the most vulgar woman. . ."
I hold my breath; she continues:
"And I think just the opposite. I think she is a classy woman."
Latte in brown mug arrives. Guy with earphones, black cap, and nice hiking shoes leans quietly over his laptop by the window; outside, yellow and red maple leaves nestle wetly in the grass.
"My son has gone crazy," the woman with short white hair says. The woman across the table leans over toward her across her Kindle. "Am I going crazy? I thought I had some napkins. . ." The woman with short white hair unpacks her purse, fumbles with a packet of sweetener, rips off the top.
The espresso machine whirs and coughs.
*
Now it is time for my Monday Morning Confession.
I confess I have spent too much time staring at my phone,
obsessed with news, not even world news, but the smut
that dirties the windows of our nation.
I confess that early in the morning when I wake
I have felt doubt seize me, I have listened to the words
"You do not do enough, you do not produce enough."
I confess that though I have many comfortable places
to sit, I have lusted after a chaise lounge, placed just so
facing the fire.
I confess that lately I have not read poetry, history or science,
nor (since I encountered the scary stray airedale)
have I walked every morning.
I confess that lately I've felt hospitality is for the birds
and generosity just an option;
Also, I have indulged in microwave popcorn.
I confess that I have thought, more than once,
listening to the children squabble or yell,
"We have to live with these people for many more years."
I confess, yesterday when walking in the park--
the grass soggy underfoot and above the sky grey--
the wild lichen edged with lace,
creeping over the bark of the aspen
bid me forget wet shoes, politics, and stupid men,
and see my daughter's hand, placed on that tree,
her five pink fingernails like a giggle in a somber place,
and just beyond where we stood under the aspens,
the maples burning hot & hopeful.
"I didn't say anything," snaps the woman with short black hair, black sweatsuit, duck-yellow raincoat slung on the chair behind her.
Her coffee partner looks up from her Kindle across the table at her. "The doctor's office was so cold this morning."
Woman with short white hair scrolls, makes a comment about exam rooms, says, "Mike Pence is quoted as saying Michelle Obama is the most vulgar woman. . ."
I hold my breath; she continues:
"And I think just the opposite. I think she is a classy woman."
Latte in brown mug arrives. Guy with earphones, black cap, and nice hiking shoes leans quietly over his laptop by the window; outside, yellow and red maple leaves nestle wetly in the grass.
"My son has gone crazy," the woman with short white hair says. The woman across the table leans over toward her across her Kindle. "Am I going crazy? I thought I had some napkins. . ." The woman with short white hair unpacks her purse, fumbles with a packet of sweetener, rips off the top.
The espresso machine whirs and coughs.
*
Now it is time for my Monday Morning Confession.
I confess I have spent too much time staring at my phone,
obsessed with news, not even world news, but the smut
that dirties the windows of our nation.
I confess that early in the morning when I wake
I have felt doubt seize me, I have listened to the words
"You do not do enough, you do not produce enough."
I confess that though I have many comfortable places
to sit, I have lusted after a chaise lounge, placed just so
facing the fire.
I confess that lately I have not read poetry, history or science,
nor (since I encountered the scary stray airedale)
have I walked every morning.
I confess that lately I've felt hospitality is for the birds
and generosity just an option;
Also, I have indulged in microwave popcorn.
I confess that I have thought, more than once,
listening to the children squabble or yell,
"We have to live with these people for many more years."
I confess, yesterday when walking in the park--
the grass soggy underfoot and above the sky grey--
the wild lichen edged with lace,
creeping over the bark of the aspen
bid me forget wet shoes, politics, and stupid men,
and see my daughter's hand, placed on that tree,
her five pink fingernails like a giggle in a somber place,
and just beyond where we stood under the aspens,
the maples burning hot & hopeful.
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