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.
