Jeanie is a Secretary

Wakes at the fag end of an ordinary dream
Face down to a pinched pillow
Listens to the irregular thump of her
Dubious heart
Untangles sheet from twisted leg
Opens eye gingerly
Breathes the first breath again
The repetitive still birth of morning
Over and over
The light the same and different
The temperature beyond the
Edge of the bed a torture.

Licks the crust at the hinge of
Her mouth that tastes like yesterday
The same blue bolt in the waking brain
That cracks regret
The crick in the hip
The hair a nest of hornets
The tongue a hive of worker bees

But at least she woke before
The dread alarm, before the horror
Of the day came clambering
A thousand devil decibels.
At least.

So after five minutes contemplating
The certainty of deadly death and unspeakable,
Inevitable pain that is the lot of us all
She rallies, gets up, makes coffee,
Smokes a cigarette, shivering,
Runs water against
A bent back, lingers at the mirror
Pulls up the blind from every window
To find a crackling of frost
Dresses in old new clothes
Winter boots from a catalogue
The keys, the purse, the lunch in Tupperware.
Retraces the route she knows by heart.
By heart.