Free of weekdays’ jolting jangle, the reader sleeps late.
The poet wakes early, anticipation snapping like a trap.
Dew stowaways ride the reader’s slippers as he retrieves his newspaper.
The poet, possibility-charged, brisks to the dairy.
Coffee percolates while the reader casually unwraps the plastic.
In the dairy, the poet is poised like an expectant parent.
The reader disgorges the inserts and swoops on the cartoons.
The poet opens the section to look for the birthmark.
Breakfast arrayed, the reader opens the broadsheet with a satisfied crackle.
Smudged with print placenta, the poet witnesses another’s ink born.
The reader chews the poem with her bacon, spitting out the rind.
The poet’s labour continues for another week.
POET'S NOTE: Today, Thursday March 21, is the UN-designated World Poetry Day. I thought this poem about the poet/reader dichotomy seemed appropriate. We live in hope of showing off our "babies" to an adoring public, but we have to bow down to literature's midwife, the editor. Just as long as that "midwife" doesn't make us drive to the hospital with our frightened mother when we can't detect a heartbeat.