Most mornings I wake up slowly. That’s just
the way I am. I wake up slow as I can, listening first
to one thing, then another. The milk bottles chiming
just outside the door, then the milktruck idling in the street.
If I’m lucky, the girl through the wall will be singing
and I’ll hear her next, singing while she dresses. Maybe
she’s brushing her hair, or tying the ribbon for her stocking
—that would be nice. And out in the hall, some man will
probably kiss Miss Weitz good-bye again—yes, I believe
those are their lowered voices now, and that is his cough.
Others are coming out now, their doors opening and closing so
variously, too many to sort out. Why sort them out? And now
the factory whistle is telling the night shift that enough is enough.
Now I hear myself humming along, joining in this little chorus
of good intentions. When everything is ready, I’ll go out.