time has stopped moving.
she hung up her cap and apron
took some tylonel pm and went to bed.
i can her snoring the bedroom over,
through our closets, back to back.
she snores like my father
and mutters faintly like my mother.
i'd go wake her up--
but the air is so still with anticipation
it has lulled my legs asleep.
the art of everyday movement
is as complex as a sonnet
and gentle as my child hood creek.
my hand holding the cordless to my ear
the cool feel of plastic on my cheek
and against my fingers.
my feet slapping against the hardwood, too--
also simple, also filled with the cream
of power and purpose.
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