The Care and Its Enemies

I walk softly on the hardwood floors so as not to wake you.

My steps away from the bed are as gentle as if I were touching you.

Even down the stairs, you’re my first consideration,

not the coffee, not the cereal, not the newspaper resting,

in blue plastic, on the front door step.

Breakfast is just one episode in caring.

I hush the kettle as it boils.

I gingerly dig spoon in flakes, slide them through my lips,

chew with my teeth on constant vigilance,

as if one loud chomp would kill all life to come.

And I turn the pages of the Journal slowly.

Inner city crime and drugs have never been so cocooned.

But then the trash-man comes, banging, clanging, bashing, thumping,

right outside the bedroom window.

With all that racket going on,

you’re up and about in an instant.

Typical trash-man. He knows everything I throw out,

nothing of what I keep.