The Morning’s Script

The morning’s script: I gather myself
in the dark, set out to the street while
dogwalkers negotiate direction, don’t
hide their misery. I get onto a train of bodies
huddled into themselves, killing time by
staring at moving screens, the darkness
behind their eyes. Technology’s heat
parches the air as news alerts remind us of
apocalyptic fires, countries descending
into cruelty. It’s strange how you can feel
alive and dead at the same time. I find a seat,
hold a headache in my hands, cradle it like a rock
between fingers, think about how this birthday
will be soup and crackers and cancelled plans.
How I will watch trains through the window,
eggs boiling on the stove. Then the voice comes
over the intercom, reminds us of the final stop,
and I wonder how many of us are, every day,
trying to escape the shadow of a mistake.
Like everyone else, I stand too early, put the
headache in my pocket with the keys, think of
the eggs cooling, ready to eat.

Adrienne Weiss is the author of the poetry collections, Awful Gestures (Insomniac Press, 2001) and There Are No Solid Gold Dancers Anymore (Nightwood Editions, 2014). Her work has appeared in ARC Poetry, Canadian Literature, Taddle Creek, and Room Magazine. She lives in Toronto, Canada. Instagram: @luludelage