He rises early and dresses
in the dark, letting her sleep
for just a while longer. The kids
will wake her soon enough.
The light from the fridge
spills across the white
tiles of the kitchen floor like milk.
Lunch already packed. He eats cereal
leaning against the bench.
The boiling kettle and the traffic
on the distant road are the only noise.
Pull the front door quietly closed.
The security light illuminates the path;
a strip of glare amidst the shadows.
The car is a beast, crouched
on the driveway, wet with dew.
Waiting. Possum in the tree,
Nobody else is out but lights
in windows, here and there, show
the early shift is starting to rise.
He turns out onto the street.
The coffee is back inside, steam
glistening in the first touches
of dawn light. He keeps driving.
Bach is on the radio;
the first Brandenburg Concerto,
playing for the gathering day.